


Apparitions

by tubbyk



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 10:16:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14788628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tubbyk/pseuds/tubbyk
Summary: Someone is gone but not forgotten.





	1. Should Have Been More

It wasn’t that d’Artagnan wasn’t funny. 

It wasn’t that he wasn’t trying. They were all trying. 

Day after day, long weeks and months into sombre years. They all tried. 

But it would never be the same. 

Porthos could laugh now. Sometimes it was even genuine. He could joke and play cards and feast and fuck with the best of them but it would never be the same.

The ghost of his absent friend always sat, walked, rode, lay beside him and it hurt so badly to not be able to see him laugh, not be able to coax that devilish smile from his lips and hear him eulogise and flatter and prevaricate until all who loved him rolled their eyes and fondly told him to be quiet or find a new audience. 

In reality, he never did. It only made him waffle on even more. And in reality they would never, _ever_ have made him leave. 

Nobody ever wanted that. 

_Nobody._

Especially not Porthos. 

It was now two years since Aramis died. 

Two long, hard, soul-searing years. 

He hadn’t believed it of course. Didn’t want to see the body but insisted all the same. Didn’t want to believe that he hadn’t been right there fighting beside him, protecting him, hadn’t seen the moment when his face was blasted away by an explosion, hadn’t held him as his failing heart took its last beat. 

Cradling a faceless form. Stroking the familiar uniform beneath which nothing was beating, pulsing or pumping. Shedding vast oceans of tears only to wake up curled in the darkness, knowing nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed now. Aramis was gone and that fact trumped all other truths every single day. 

Athos and d’Artagnan stayed close. Treville would never split them up now. Not after making the fateful decision to send Aramis off without them to help the advance raiding party reach the southern border. They were only a day away but it may as well have been the other end of the earth. The three remaining would never be apart now. 

Only death could open that fissure between them. 

_Death._

It was something they had all experienced on the battlefield, in their everyday lives as musketeers, on the tough streets of Paris. But it didn’t happen to one of them. Somehow they had all remained invincible, blessed to always evade Death’s tendrils and awake to a new day, together and relieved and believing in their own immortality despite all the evidence around them. 

_Not now._

As he had held Aramis’ body Death mocked his arrogant insistence on eternal life. They had all danced around the periphery for too long, took too many chances, conceited and confident in their skills until one of them had slipped and fallen into the abyss. 

Porthos shook his head to clear the familiar reverie. It didn’t matter if he didn’t want to remember. He couldn’t forget. Not ever. Not Aramis. 

A hare tilted its ears in the far paddock to his left. Aramis would have drawn his musket and aimed with casual nonchalance but spectacular precision. 

The spire of the town’s minster rose high up over the elm trees in the distance. Aramis would have narrated an unbidden history lesson on that particular house of worship and if he hadn’t known its story he would have insisted on a quick detour to arm himself with its particulars. 

D’Artagnan was currently remarking to Athos about his alarming confrontation with the blacksmith’s daughter. Aramis would have cleared his throat and launched into a colourful and well-drawn ( but never lewd ) description of his own luscious encounter with the same young lady and none of them – Porthos included – would have had any clue as to the veracity of the tale. But it didn’t matter, because it was Aramis. 

It was always about Aramis. From the moment Porthos arrived in the garrison Aramis had been front and centre. On his first day when he threw his initial opponent over his head and the second into the water trough he heard that singular clear, high, laugh of delight from the sidelines and knew before he even looked that he had found the only audience he would ever need. 

It worked both ways. Sometimes Aramis made a shot that shouldn’t by rights be allowed by anyone but Porthos knew he’d only attempted it in the first place to entertain him. And they’d laugh and call each other extraordinary and nobody else would be any the wiser and that was perfectly fine.

Sometimes he wondered if there should have been more. There could have been, he felt, if he’d been bolder, braver, less tentative when the opportunities arose. Because they did. Cold nights in the forest, on a mission, huddling, curling up together, Aramis laughing into his neck, breathing warmth onto his skin. Drunken birthdays, fumbling, chuckling, happily licking the aftermath of melon off Aramis’ jaw, tasting fruit, skin, stubble on lips, daring himself to take it further but not willing to risk it all. And all those times when Aramis, delirious with the pleasure of simply being alive had thrown himself into Porthos’ arms for no reason except to share his joy, well, how easy would it have been to just lean down and capture those lips?

It was too late now. He’d never know. 

D’Artagnan signalled with a high pitch whistle that it was time to be alert.

A rider came into view, uniformed, armed and in a hurry. 

They halted, drew their pistols and waited for him to reach them. 

“Musketeers, you answered our request for help,” he remarked on recognising their uniforms. “Is this your full regiment?” 

“Sixty men ride behind me,” confirmed Athos, “but we would never leave a lesser amount in Paris.”

“Disappointing but understandable.” The man had no time for small talk and introduced himself as Michel then quickly laid out the situation even while he beckoned them to follow. 

“We kept the Spanish at bay for months but in the last few weeks they have managed to infiltrate our defences. If they capture the town it will set our campaign back years."

While not welcoming the news, Porthos did welcome the diversion from his low thoughts. He needed something now to keep him occupied. A physical distraction to chew through his dark musings. Something rough and tangible to anchor him to the daylight. 

This last morning’s ride had not been a long one and they agreed to follow Michel down immediately to the front line of the French forces. Their attention was drawn to the number of injured men they passed making their way slowly back up the track to town, either helped by another or stumbling unaided. 

An even more grim sight awaited them at the tree line, where the Spanish could be seen in the distant forest, only a solitary open field between them. Bodies lay in a haphazard line to the left of the final stretch of the track, waiting for the cart to come and collect them. Porthos shuddered and resolved to be merciless with the Spanish pigs who had done this. 

The field was being held but the call had gone out across France for help when it became apparent that the Spanish were trying to circle the town by breaching the bridge then attacking through the forest to the south of the town. 

“We can’t let the bridge fall and we can’t leave our defences short here or they’ll cross the field.” Of this Porthos was resolved.

“We’ll hold it,” Athos assured him. 

As a soldier who had held bridge defences before, Porthos knew there were bridges and there were bridges. He’d been tasked to hold a bridge that was little more than a few planks of waterlogged wood and he’d raided a bridge that could have quite comfortably held the whole garrison walking side by side across it. 

This particular bridge was of a good size, stone in construction, and held a commanding view over the fast-moving water below. 

“Where are we and where are they?” d’Artagnan asked Michel, frowning as he peered across the water at the dense, dark bank of trees. 

“We are on both sides of the river, just. But they have a canny sniper picking off our men on the bridge so it’s difficult to get across and getting just as hard to make the return journey. If our numbers diminish further they are sure to charge and I fear we will not be able to stop them.”

“Where is the sniper?” asked Athos, joining d’Artagnan to squint at the seemingly impenetrable forest. 

Michel asked a few quick questions to the men holding the bridge and pointed at the thick foliage to the left across the water. 

“They think he’s in there. We’ve been trying to target him for weeks now but he’s shrewd.”

Athos gave orders to his men then gestured to Michel that they were ready. 

“Keep your wits about you,” hissed Athos, “I don’t fancy lugging either of you back up that track tonight.”

D’Artagnan laughed. Porthos remained grim. All three moved low and on the count of three they and a dozen other musketeers ran across the bridge while the remaining soldiers on the north town side of the river fired a volley of shots in the direction of the forest. 

The French contingent on the south side of the bridge were tired, severely depleted and overjoyed by their arrival. But the astute among them cautioned that the Spanish would get ready to charge the bridge, least the arrival of the new troops lost them their opportunity. 

“Fine. Let’s not wait for them to charge,” decided Athos. “We wait for more men to come across the bridge then we strike hard and fast.”

Two more volleys of fire across the bridge and thirty men later, they were ready to attack. 

“D’Artagnan, you take the flank to the right. I’ll move forward and try to eliminate their leader. Porthos, take a dozen men and get that sniper before he does any more damage.”

Stealth seemed pointless after the cacophony of the bridge gunfire but they figured the Spanish would not expect them to strike so soon after crossing the bridge so Porthos crept forward, using the dense underbrush as cover. 

They killed three Spanish lookouts cleanly without alerting any other troops then crawled forward to a part of the forest where the trees thinned out. Porthos gestured for his men to spread out to the right and lay low until he could see the best way forward. 

It was then that he saw him. 

He almost missed the figure hidden well in the undergrowth, lying flat on his stomach, his lower half out of view, wheat stem hanging out the side of his mouth, visible eye shut as he aimed his musket unflinchingly in the direction of the bridge. 

That was probably why Aramis didn’t see Porthos. 

Porthos didn’t even know he’d risen until someone far to his right hissed and tried to warn him to lie back down. Something lurched deep in his stomach and he was drawn forward, too scared to blink in case the apparition disappeared. Too stunned to do anything more than walk forward and feel his body begin to shake as the figure became more recognisable the closer he moved towards it. 

There was a shout of warning behind him and only years of being a soldier trained to act on reflex saved him from being sliced by a Spanish sword coming out of the thicket to his left. Porthos spun and cut the soldier down with his sword, kicking him out of the way before looking back up to his target. 

Aramis was no longer lying. 

He was standing, ready to fire, the musket trained directly at Porthos. 

“Aramis?” 

They both blinked and Porthos was vaguely aware of his sword dropping to the ground. Aramis lowered his musket and stared, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

Porthos was dimly aware of another warning shout behind him but could only watch in disbelief as Aramis made an inaudible curse, lifted the musket to his shoulder, aimed and fired. 

Directly at him. 

As Porthos fell he was certain the angels who would receive him would never believe the story of his last moments on earth.


	2. Explanations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is grumpy. Then Treville rocks up and his explanation doesn't help matters.

Heaven was a strange place. Noisy. It made you thirsty too and Porthos wondered whether the water would be fit to drink. 

Strange though that d’Artagnan appeared to have ended up here too. He wondered how the young soldier had died. Perhaps he too had been shot by …. 

With a gasp, Porthos sat up, which turned out to be a big mistake. 

“Hey, hey, no, that won’t do you any favours.” D’Artagnan’s hand firmly pushed back on Porthos’ chest until the big man was once again lying flat. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. The physician said you have to take it easy for a couple of days.”

Porthos opened an eye and squinted up at the elaborate arches on the ceiling above. 

“Where is this?”

“We defeated the Spanish and saved the town. For now at least. The ones who escaped have retreated back to their camp to the south. The town is full to the brim with French soldiers, Spanish prisoners and the dead and injured from both sides, so the priest kindly let us bring some of the wounded here.”

Porthos put a hand on his chest and felt around.

“You weren’t shot _there_. If you were I doubt we’d be having this conversation.”

The hand rose to his head and Porthos groaned as he felt the bandages. He wasn’t in pain but the light-headedness left him feeling queasy. Lucky for him the Spanish soldier was a bad shot. 

That thought again. 

Both eyes opened and he shot a look at d’Artagnan, who patted his shoulder as if reading his thoughts, sighed, then sent a knowing look across at someone. 

Athos moved into view and put a hand on the other shoulder. 

“I was shot ….by ….Aramis?”

The anticipated question merely made Athos nod. 

Porthos felt nauseous and both his friends had to hold him down. 

“It can’t have been him. Aramis? How? He’s been dead two years! You saw his body. I held it. We carried his coffin.”

“It was definitely Aramis who shot you,” confirmed Athos. “A dozen musketeers saw him. We all have a thousand questions, my friend. How is he alive? Why is he fighting for the Spanish? And what on earth would possess him to shoot his best friend?”

“None of it makes sense,” agreed d’Artagnan.

“Where is he?” Porthos’ voice was strained, unable to process all the information.

“He evaded capture,” said d’Artagnan with a sigh, “There were two Spanish swordsmen coming up behind you when you were shot. More came in from the side and by the time they were dealt with Aramis was gone.”

“Evaded capture,” murmured Athos. “That Aramis would ever have to evade capture by us is not a concept I can wrap my head around.”

“That he’s alive is something I can barely accept.” D’Artagnan looked at Porthos, “Tell me it was definitely him.”

Another wave of nausea swept through him and Porthos merely nodded then covered his face with his hands. That Aramis was alive should be a miracle to celebrate but how could he come to terms with this new truth where Aramis was fighting with the Spanish and trying to kill him no less? 

“You need to rest,” said Athos firmly, “We need not stay here much longer. Michel’s troops can do the clean-up, but we will give him another day of our services then if you are up to riding we will travel back to Paris.”

“And what about Aramis?” asked d’Artagnan uncertainly, “Do we search for him? Leave him? Forget about him?”

Athos considered that for a long moment then said simply, “He didn’t inform us that he is alive. He shot Porthos. He’s been killing French soldiers. Now he has retreated with the Spanish. I would cut his throat if I could find him.”

Porthos heard Athos walk away. He heard the soft cry of dismay from d’Artagnan beside him at the harsh words and he felt the hand on his shoulder as the young musketeer said, “Don’t worry, he wouldn’t really kill Aramis.”

“Maybe not,” said Porthos, “But I would.”

 

\--------------

 

As Porthos’ nausea subsided his sense of dread and confusion grew. 

Over and over he played the scene out in his head. Spying Aramis, seeing the recognition on his face, watching in slow motion as the musket was raised, aimed, fired …. It was not the first time he had stared down the barrel of Aramis’ gun, but it was the first time it had not been done in jest. 

He was weary. Better today than yesterday, his head wound having tightened and begun to heal, but it was impossible to not swill all the implications of Aramis being alive around in his head. He didn’t feel glad, he didn’t feel the rising swell of anger. No, he was just numb and confused because none of it made sense. 

They were all off their game. Unusually, Athos seemed to be letting his anger seep closest to the surface. Being in charge, with Treville playing Minister to the King, Athos was taking responsibility for Porthos’ injury and seemingly also for Aramis’ betrayal. Meanwhile, poor d’Artagnan was trying to tend to the sick, and tiptoe around Athos, all the while clinging to some kind of desperate hope that it was all a horrible mistake and that Aramis would come back to them somehow with a perfectly logical explanation. 

That was never going to happen. It was inconceivable. 

Porthos rose stiffly from his makeshift bed on the floor and slumped down into a pew. 

Most of the wounded had been moved out of the church that morning, as the chaos of yesterday gave way to order. Porthos and two other musketeers remained, watching the priests and church officials fuss about in silence while waiting for Athos to give the word for the regiment to return to Paris.

So the commotion and noise sounding through the rear of the holy building seemed very out of place. 

“Call Michel!” 

“Where did you find him?”

“He was sneaking along the outer wall.”

“An assassin.”

“Spanish scum.”

“Why are you bringing him to the church?”

“Pierre thinks this one is the sniper. The one the musketeers recognised.”

“They can identify him before we take him to the gallows.”

As Porthos rose from his pew the three voices were revealed to be soldiers and the object of their discussion was being dragged forward between them. 

It was Aramis. Dirty, bloodied, bound and bedraggled but definitely Aramis. He momentarily stopped struggling when he looked up and saw Porthos. A breath escaped him then he was roughly thrown down to the cold stone floor with no other preamble. 

Porthos was frozen to the spot. The soldiers were asking him questions but he could only stare at the figure on the floor, the hair longer, even more unkempt than he had ever seen it, skin sun-darkened and sporting fresh new scars, the uniform, Spanish, just wrong on so many levels. . 

“I said is this the one you recognised?” 

The soldier’s tone was one step short of exasperated. 

“Yeah.” Even that one word had to be forced out. 

“Spanish Bastard!” 

Aramis received a hefty kick to his side and doubled forward in pain. 

One of the other soldiers drew his leg back and inflicted more of the same but a commanding voice stopped him from continuing. 

“No more! We will have no ill treatment of our prisoners.” Michel strode down the aisle with Athos and d’Artagnan close behind. “If this is indeed the sniper he will go to the gallows, and there he will pay for his sins, but I will not have any prisoners abused on my watch.”

Standing beside him, Athos took a deep breath, catching Michel’s attention. 

“This is him?”

“It is.”

Michel stared at Athos, noted his grim countenance, then looked at the other two musketeers in turn, clearly having been informed of their connection and deciding how best to proceed. 

“Would you like some time alone with your friend?”

“He ain’t my friend,” stated Porthos with considerable venom. 

“Hang him now. I won’t stop you.” 

All eyes turned to Athos and d’Artagnan grabbed his arm. 

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do and so should you. We are soldiers. There is no room for traitors in our midst.”

“It’s Aramis!” 

As Athos turned away d’Artagnan gave Porthos a pleading look. “Do something,” he cried but Porthos could only shake his head and turn away from the scene, unable to process the enormity of what was happening.

“Take him away,” ordered Michel. “We hang the ringleaders and this one at dusk.” 

Aramis, who had not said a word, was dragged away and d’Artagnan’s was the only cry of despair to echo through the church. 

 

\--------------------

 

“You can’t let this happen, Athos, you can’t!” 

“I have to,” replied Athos evenly, but he ducked his head to avoid d’Artagnan’s pleading eyes.

Porthos watched from a distance with a kind of detached morbidity. It was like a terrible, bad dream, swamping him with its ferocity and speed. He could see Athos’ resolve weakening, the slump of his shoulders reflecting the heavy burden he was bearing in taking such a hard attitude towards Aramis. They could all hear the ominous tapping and banging outside as the gallows were prepared. Each nail hammered home hit equally hard into Athos’ heart. Any fool could see that and d’Artagnan was no fool. He pleaded and begged and rationalised and even Athos couldn’t remain impervious. Not to this. 

“You can stop this. Michel respects you. All you have to do is tell him to save Aramis from execution.”

“And then what?” Athos finally looked d’Artagnan in the eye and some of his tension spilled out. “We save Aramis and then what happens exactly? He languishes in a prison cell for the next forty years? We set him free to run back to the Spanish so he can regroup and begin shooting our soldiers again?”

“You could do what is right, free Aramis and bring him back to the garrison in Paris where he belongs.”

Their heads snapped around to see Treville walking down the aisle towards them. 

“Sir?” 

They all stood to attention but Treville waved at them to relax. 

“I’m sorry, all of you. Sometimes your speed and sense of justice does me no favours. You weren’t meant to answer that plea for help to come here. I was away at the time the directive reached you and I have fought hard to make it here in time to stop this escalating. If none of you had come down south here this would not be the mess it is. But I engineered it all in the beginning so I have to tell you all now that I’m sorry and I have to find a way to get all of us out of this. And by all of us I mean Aramis too.”

Treville looked at them all in turn then raised his eyes up to the heavens.

“There is an informant, a spy keeping good track of our plans and movements down near the Spanish border. It was causing us considerable grief and we needed to find a way to get one of our operatives inside the Spanish lines to feed us information. At the same time it came to my attention that our dear departed Cardinal had left instructions for his spies to get any incriminating evidence on Aramis and to use it to destroy him. Rochefort made enough of a fuss to bring the story and the evidence to the prelate’s attentions. No matter that the King ultimately absolved Aramis. The danger was still out there and the threat was clear.” 

He sat on the end of a pew and rubbed his hands on his knees, sounding weary of the games. 

“There were rumblings. Mischief and murder and everything in between. I had to get Aramis out of Paris. He had to have a clean break or else it would have followed him across France. His Spanish is fluent, he looks the part and what company of soldiers wouldn’t want to have an addition as good as him to add to their ranks?”

“Why didn’t either of you tell us?”

“A clean break is not clean if there are loyalties and allegiances hovering overhead, Porthos.”

“So you pretended Aramis was dead?” said d’Artagnan. 

“Whose body did I cry over?” Porthos interjected, before Treville could answer. 

The Minister smiled sadly at him. “Porthos, I know I owe you the biggest apology. Nobody who watched you react to Aramis’ death would dare to doubt its veracity.”

“Whose body was it?” Porthos repeated, louder, insistant. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “We waited until we found a body amongst the fighting with the right colouring and hair. It was a Spanish soldier who had fortuitously – for us at least – had most of his face blown away. We dressed him in Aramis’ uniform and hoped in your grief that you wouldn’t look too hard.”

“’ _We’_ being you and him.”

“Myself and Aramis, yes.”

It didn’t escape Treville’s notice that Porthos couldn’t even bring himself to say Aramis’ name. 

“That was our cue to send Aramis across the border. It took time but he placed himself in a position to be noticed by one of the Spanish regiments, shooting ducks of all things. They were impressed by his skills of course and invited him to join them. Not bad for a common Spanish peasant.”

Porthos wasn’t impressed and turned away, clenching his fists into balls and shaking out his tense shoulders. 

“It wasn’t his fault, Porthos.”

“Leave him,” counselled Athos as Porthos stormed out through the main doorway, “In two years he still hasn’t come to terms with Aramis’ death. It will take more than a quick apology and a miraculous reappearance to make him accept what’s happened.”

“And what about you?” asked Treville. 

Athos kept looking at the doorway with a frown knitting his brow. 

“My duty is to look after my men. I shall continue to do that to the best of my ability. Aramis is pretending to be a Spanish soldier and he is under your direct command, not mine. I don’t believe I have the time, skills or desire to liaise with him before he goes back to join the Spanish troops.”

Treville watched him thoughtfully then rose. 

“You will have all the time you need to rescue your relationship with Aramis, as his time on the Spanish frontline is over. He will accompany us all back to Paris and back to his rightful place as a musketeer. So it seems all you have to do is work on your skills and desire to welcome him back into the fold.”

Athos dropped his eyes in acknowledgement of the words but made no attempt to answer. 

“The archbishop in charge of investigating Aramis has a heart issue and is ailing and at least two of his advisors are seeking stronger ties with the King and therefore myself, so they are behaving accordingly. The danger for Aramis has seemingly abated if not passed. I cannot see fit to send him back to the Spanish. From what Michel has told me the Spanish saw enough of what went on yesterday to have their suspicions raised about Aramis and his allegiances. Now he’s been caught abandoning his position and trying to sneak back in to the town here which is damning enough.”

“Why would he do that?” asked d’Artagnan. “Was he trying to escape the Spanish?”

“I have not spoken to Aramis yet but I would make an educated guess that he was wanting to know how his best friend was faring.”

Treville snapped the words out then bit his lip as he watched his men drop their heads. He sighed and said more softly, “Again, I’m sorry. I take full responsibility for the deception. You feel betrayed but remember that Aramis has suffered too these last few years. This is hard on everybody. Don’t abandon him now.”

 

\-----------------

 

Porthos walked out of the church and through the town, avoiding the square where the gallows were being prepared. He retraced his steps from the day before and ended up sitting by the bridge watching the French troops. He tried to clear his head, to not think about the implications of everything Treville had told them. Tried to wipe the memory of a nameless, faceless Spanish soldier who he’d held and wept over. Tried to remember if there was something about the fit of the uniform, the hair caked in mud and blood, the already decaying, greying skin that should have warned him that this was not his friend. 

But he had believed it. He believed it all. 

_Too trusting_ , people said. 

_How can you be so streetwise yet so gullible?_ That was Athos. 

Because when it came to friends, he trusted them absolutely. His loyalty to them was one hundred percent and he expected, he knew, that he would get the same in return. 

So when that trust was abused …. 

He closed his eyes. His head throbbed. His heart hurt even more than it did before he realised Aramis was alive. He could already feel the loyalties of his friends, of Treville being tested. He felt like his world was being ripped in two. And there was something else he refused to think of. A loyalty that had been broken. Something else that would cause a rift. But that confrontation would come in good time and he would deal with it when it did. 

“There you are.” D’Artagnan never failed to sound pleased to see his friends. Porthos wondered if he’d used the same tone with Aramis after he’d left the church? Whether they’d already hugged? If he opened his eyes would Aramis be standing here now, smiling too? 

He wasn’t. It was just d’Artagnan, with Athos lurking nearby, speaking in a low tone to one of the soldiers. 

“We leave for Paris in the morning,” d’Artagnan informed him. “All of us,” he added, watching Porthos closely. 

“So he’s not going off to be a Spanish sniper again?”

“Apparently not.”

Porthos stabbed the ground with a stick to punctuate his anger. 

“I’m not riding with him.”

“He’ll be with Treville. We won’t have to talk to him or watch him. We’ll ride up front. And if they ride up the front, we’ll ride up the back. I don’t care, Porthos. I just want everyone to be calm and safe and to not be murdering or lynching each other.”

Porthos stared at d’Artagnan and properly acknowledged the worry and angst set in his normally happy features. He threw the stick away and said gruffly, “Athos wouldn’t have let them hang him.”

“It didn’t sound that way to me.”

“Nah. He has enough demons from hanging loved ones. That lynching talk was just his way of releasing some anger.” 

“And what about you?”

“Oh, I’d lynch him.”

“Porthos, you lie.”

“Dunno. Can’t think about it right now. Can’t cope that he died. Can’t cope now he’s back. Can’t even say his name. Every time I think about the mess this has created I ….”

There was no word for what he was trying to express so he threw a large rock into the river and watched as it disappeared into the churning waters. 

Athos came up and stood beside him, not letting on as to how much he had heard. 

“Your wound is bleeding again. You need it seen to.”

“Reminds me of my priorities.”

“Fine, bleed away. If the medic sees it seeping then you’ll have to ride all the way back to Paris at the rear with him along with certain other people who are also injured.”

“Bastard.”

“If you say so.” A rare smile turned up the corner of Athos' mouth and he put an arm gently over Porthos' shoulder. "Now come, my friend, we have a long ride back to Paris tomorrow and if you let me change your bandage now I'll play cards and let you once again empty my pockets of their coin."


	3. Inconsequential Belongings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit of angsty schmoop to move the story along as Aramis returns to the garrison …

Combining Treville’s entourage and the musketeers brought south by Athos, the party heading back to Paris numbered close to ninety, which gave everyone enough room to avoid and steer clear of awkward confrontations, even with a long two day ride. 

More uncomfortable was the arrival at the garrison when Athos realised that Aramis no longer had a room to slink off to, his having been taken by d’Artagnan and d’Artagnan’s having been taken by a new recruit. 

Even more problematic was the fact that Treville had been headed off by an outrider on the way in to Paris, summoned urgently by the King for a meeting about something which was probably anything but truly urgent. 

Regardless, it left Athos – as the highest ranking officer in the garrison now - with the task of having to work out what to do with Aramis and where to put him. Nobody else was going near Aramis, who dismounted and automatically went to sit on the musketeer’s usual bench, then seemed to realise it was no longer his place. He walked to the other side of the courtyard, as far away from it as he could get, threw down his meagre bag of belongings then sat down by one of the large support posts, head low, hatless, the cloak Treville had given him wrapped tightly around his shoulders, hiding the Spanish uniform. 

“He can stay with me,” suggested d’Artagnan. “Or he can have his room back and I’ll stay in your room.”

Athos just stared at the cloaked figure and shook his head. 

“No. I will not change anything here for him. He will have to accept that things have moved on without him and any adjustments that have to be made will be his, not ours.”

“But he has to stay somewhere.”

“Let me chew over my options.”

“Well at least let me take him some food.”

“No. Don’t go near him.”

“Is that an order?” 

“It’s not a request.”

Exasperated, d’Artagnan shot a last look at Aramis then strode off in the direction of his quarters. 

Athos looked around for signs of Porthos. A quick check and he was told that the big musketeer had dismounted then headed straight for the tavern. It wasn’t surprising. 

 

\--------------------------

 

The fog was settling, hanging low and thick, slowly curling and winding through the garrison buildings like an encompassing spectre, embracing the silence and gloom of the starless night. Athos could see a thin coating of frost beginning to sketch an outline on Aramis’ cloak. He hadn’t moved, stayed hunched and still, head bowed low and hidden under clenched hands and unruly curls.

The gap between them seemed insurmountable, the fog making Aramis look otherworldly, a grief-stricken statue of pain. 

But Athos had experienced enough of his own pain over the years to know when it was time for someone to step in and say _Enough._ He knew Aramis had been the first one to approach him when he was low with drink and self-hatred. Had he never intervened, Athos had no doubt he would not be here today. Aramis didn’t have to care but he did. And now Athos could either let the anger chew him up and turn away or he could reach out and remember the grief, the loss, the terrible pall of despair they all felt at losing their friend. 

Athos looked at the small sack of possessions resting near the post. It seemed too small – too inconsequential – to be holding two years’ worth of grief manifested into something physical. 

He picked it up and only then did Aramis seem to notice his presence and raise his head. He looked startled and confused, as if not understanding at all why Athos would be there. 

Athos sighed and lifted the sack. 

“You can’t stay here like this. Come with me.”

He turned away immediately and went to move off but then waited until he heard Aramis slowly rise and make to follow. They walked silently through the garrison heart, single file, Athos leading, Aramis following, down through the corridor splitting the barracks until they reached an outer building, set slightly apart. 

Athos kicked roughly at a door which he knew from experience was stubborn and uncooperative. It begrudgingly thwacked inwards and got stuck on the lifted floorboard, so Athos shouldered it open the rest of the way, as usual.

Sensing the loss of his shadow, Athos threw the sack onto his bed and squinted back through the errant doorway. Aramis stood outside, back in the misty shadows, head down, the same lost expression on his face. 

“Come inside,” Athos directed simply. 

Aramis hesitated then slowly stepped forward and moved wearily through the door into Athos’ lodgings. 

Closing the door behind him to keep the chill out, Athos bent down to stoke the fire which he’d lit earlier in the evening. From the steaming pot on the coals he poured some hot water into a large deep bowl of cooled water on the side table. 

Testing the temperature with his fingertips, Athos walked away satisfied and began to stir a stew bubbling and erupting lazily in the second pot above the fire. 

“Clean yourself up,” he ordered. “You can’t eat while you’re filthy and freezing.”

When he heard the water being dipped into he glanced up to get a proper look at Aramis, but was presented only by the stiff, cloaked back and tense shoulders. 

“Sit and get warm.”

It was another order but in his insistence on getting Aramis to do his bidding, Athos stood and unwittingly put out a hand and grabbed Aramis’ arm. 

He froze, staring first to where his hand clutched Aramis’ arm and then lifting slowly up to see guarded, concerned eyes watching him warily. 

Familiar dark eyes. 

Athos felt himself take a too deep breath then he moved his other hand to clutch Aramis’ shoulder. 

He made to speak but couldn’t remember which words to say. Made to breathe but had to gulp for air. Tried to remember how dark it had been without Aramis but could only marvel at how magnificent it was to be with him now. 

“Do you have any idea how much you’ve been missed?” he finally rasped out roughly. 

Moving forward slowly, Athos wrapped his arms around Aramis and hugged him tight, hot well-earned tears falling slowly into his hair. As he held him tight and silently wept, Athos became aware of the unresponsiveness of the body he was holding. He pulled back and stared at Aramis, forcing him to make eye contact. 

“We lost you. Now you’re back. That’s the only thing that matters to me, my friend. You’re home.”

Athos closed in for a second hug which started off much the same as the first until a hand raised up and tentatively rested on Athos’ back. Then another hand. Athos kept holding Aramis, refusing to back away, repeating his mantra, ‘you’re here and nothing else matters,’ into the dark curls on Aramis’ neck. 

It wasn’t a quick change, but gradually he felt Aramis relax slightly, his muscles losing tension, his body slackening to rest against Athos’ own. And in time Athos realised that his own neck was moist. Tears, not his own, sliding down under his tunic to dampen his shirt collar. 

“I’m sorry. It was remiss of me not to do this when we first found you.”

Those words finally elicited a pained noise and a small shake of his head out of Aramis, and Athos felt the back of his tunic being clutched tighter. 

“Aramis, you are my friend. You were following orders. Your choices were tough.” 

“Tough or not, my choices lately have all been misdirected and misinterpreted.”

“Ahh. You still speak. My concern was growing.”

Athos waited for a sign of amusement but there was none to be found. Aramis looked just as lost and haunted as before as he broke away from Athos, wiped the tears from his face and slumped down in front of the fire without a further look at him. 

There was plenty of time, Athos reminded himself as he sat down on the other chair beside the fire. And considering the events of the past week it was likely to take some people longer than others to readjust. 

He was about to offer Aramis some stew when there was a knock at the door and it burst open before Athos could reply with an ‘Enter.’

“He’s gone. I know you said to leave Aramis alone but I couldn’t let him sit out there by himse…” 

D’Artagnan stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the two men in front of the fire. 

“He’s here.” The young musketeer gave a tentative smile then said more confidently, “Aramis, you’re here!” 

Before Aramis could rise d’Artagnan threw himself down in front of the fire, wrapped his arms around his shoulders and hugged him tight with an iron-like grip. Even Aramis couldn’t escape the infectiousness of d’Artagnan’s enthusiastic welcome and for the first time Athos glimpsed the ghost of a smile on his face. 

“We missed you so much!” exclaimed d’Artagnan, his smile wide and genuine. 

“So I’ve been told,” replied Aramis wearily. He gestured to the pots on the fire. “Sit with us. Athos is about to force me to eat and drink.”

“I am about to try to get you to warm up and if force feeding you stew and ale are a means to that end then certainly d’Artagnan may stay and help.” 

Aramis didn’t smile but he did let out a deep sigh and took the offered bowl of stew without any objection. They all ate and drank, Athos and d'Artagnan studying their friend between mouthfuls, Aramis not raising his eyes from his bowl. 

“I do like the hair. Any of your mistresses would be proud to have such luscious locks,” teased d’Artagnan tentatively, flicking a hand over the curls falling down over Aramis’ shoulders. 

“You’ve lost weight,” pointed out Athos, “and your skin is twice as dark as it used to be.”

Aramis swallowed a mouthful of ale with difficulty then shrugged halfheartedly. “I’ve been a soldier on the front line for two years. There, nobody has time to care about the length of their hair or the complexion of their skin. And there have been few feasts on the battlefield to fatten my stomach.”

“There will be plenty of time to do all those things as you settle back in. Paris will welcome you.”

Aramis gave Athos a hard, unsettling stare. 

“Your optimism tries to settle me but I know the truth. I’m not welcome back here. When I look around me all I see is suspicion and hatred.”

“It’s too soon for everyone to act as if nothing has happened,” said Athos. “Those two years stretched long for all of us. But given time and hearing your tale, knowing your reasons, I’m sure they will all come around.”

“All? Or just most. Because I’m thinking some won’t ever forgive me.”

They didn’t need to hear Porthos’ name to know who Aramis was referring to. 

“We’ll deal with everyone in good time. Right now you’re tired and battle-scarred and nothing will seem right until you’ve rested and recovered.”

Aramis shook his head and put his half-eaten bowl of stew down on the hearth. 

“Everything has changed and I can’t make it right,” He murmured. 

Before Athos could offer a retort there was a knock on his door. Aramis looked up briefly with a glimmer of hope, but Athos knew that Porthos did not need to wait after his knock. 

“Enter.”

A man entered, a musketeer, uniform - including cloak and boots - dusty and muddy, mission-rough and almost as hard-worn as Aramis’. He fiddled with the hat in his hands then ran fingers through his long brown hair. Dark eyes were nervous and concerned.

“Captain. D’Artagnan … Monsieur,” he added as he spotted Aramis’ hunched form. 

“What is it?” 

“Our party has just returned, Captain. The mission went well. We captured ….”

“Fidel, I am in no mood to do a briefing now at this ungodly hour.”

“Yes, Captain. Certainly, only ….”

Athos gave him a severe glare that told him to make it quick. 

“Porthos, he isn’t in his room and I’ve already checked mine. I was told you had reached Paris ahead of us but no-one seems to know where he is.”

“Drowning his thoughts and feelings most likely,” muttered Athos, watching Aramis carefully but seeing that lethargy had dulled his senses to their conversation and his head was down on his chest again, which was probably just as well. 

“If you should see him…?”

Athos just nodded curtly and the door was closed quietly. He looked at Aramis, head still bowed with fatigue, then exchanged a knowing look with d’Artagnan. 

“You need to sleep before slumber overtakes you and makes you fall into the fire,” instructed Athos gently, helping Aramis to his feet. “I have use of these quarters until the day Treville returns and people stop calling me Captain. There is a spare bed and plenty of room. You will stay here until an alternative is arranged.”

Aramis didn’t fight him. Athos wasn’t sure if he even really heard him. His eyes closed for a long moment and he rocked and teetered on his feet as if in a daze. Neither Athos nor d’Artagnan touched him but both moved forward within reach, concern etched on both their brows. 

“Maybe my time as a musketeer is done,” he whispered, more to himself than to his audience. “There is nothing left here. Can’t go back to what we had. So weary … of life. Can’t ….can’t ….do this….”

Two strong sets of arms were waiting and caught him when he fell. They carried him to the bed and lay him down, Athos gently feeling his forehead and cheeks for sign of fever, but only finding hard traces of fatigue and grief etched onto his features. 

“Get some sleep. Go. I won’t leave him.”

D’Artagnan clutched Aramis’ hand and frowned. “Will he be all right?”

“We’ll make sure he is.”

“He’s hardly spoken but what he said just then ….”

“He’s exhausted. Not himself.”

“And when he finds out the truth about Porthos …?”

Here Athos paused and set his mouth into a grim line. 

“When that moment happens I suspect he won’t be quite so sparing with his words.”


	4. Hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quickie to move the plot forward. Literally!

Porthos was leaning on the bench, fully armed and uniformed, waiting for Athos. It was hardly yet light, the bench too damp to sit on, drenched in the night’s mist. 

Athos barely glanced at him as he trudged past, shrugging his coat on and fastening his belt, but felt Porthos falling in behind as he walked up the steps to the office. 

The large desk sat in the middle of the room covered in various inks and papers, maps and weaponry. Athos adopted a slightly formal position standing behind it, dropped his eyes for a moment then looked at Porthos directly, blatantly and asked, “Did Fidel find you last night?”

“Don’t you fucking dare….”

Porthos’ chest heaved in quickening rage and he took a step forward but Athos didn’t flinch. A line had been crossed with that question but it was time. 

“Aramis isn’t the only one trying to assuage his guilt,” said Athos evenly. 

“Fuck you! I have nothing to be guilty about. Nothing! And now you’re choosing sides with him?”

“This is not about choosing sides. D'Artagnan and I find ourselves in the middle of this mess very much trying not to choose sides.”

“Oh, so d’Artagnan’s in on this too and it’s okay for the two of you to blame all this on me?”

“I am not blaming anything on you. I have two friends, both of them suffering, one unable to step toward the other because he is cloaked in guilt and self-loathing and the other unable to step forward because a burning rage is devouring his compassion.”

“You’re quick to change your attitude. Only days ago you were happy to see him go to the gallows.”

“We all felt deceived.”

“But what, you’ve now had some divine revelation and can see how fucking wronged and innocent he is?”

“He’s not innocent. He agreed to the scheme. It was very wrong of him to deceive us and to mislead you with the dead body. But the cost to him if he hadn’t gone along with Treville’s plan could have been fatal. We all know how far the Cardinal’s reach stretches, even after his death.”

“He faked his own death. He deceived me. He shot French soldiers. He shot me. I won’t ever forgive him.”

“Yes, he did shoot you. But Porthos, I have spoken with many of our men who saw what happened. Your attention was fixated on Aramis. You didn’t see what was going on behind you. They did. Two Spanish soldiers came up behind you, swords drawn. They were hidden from your view when you dropped your sword. You had no defences. If Aramis had shot you in the stomach or arm or leg, what would have happened? You would have gone down yelling and screaming and the Spanish would have needed to finish you off. Aramis had only one shot he could make in time. He couldn’t take both of the soldiers out with the one shot he had so he did the only thing he could to save you. He shot you in a way that didn’t kill you but _did_ cause you to lose you consciousness. To all intents and purposes, you appeared dead. The Spanish veered away and backtracked, thinking they had no need to end your life.”

Porthos shook his head and said vehemently, “No, that’s not what happened.”

“It is and I have witnesses.”

“Nobody can shoot that good.”

“You of all people know that one man can.”

“If he’d missed he would have killed me.”

“If he’d not taken that shot and grazed your head you would have been killed anyway.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why do you think he risked coming up to the town? He wanted to make sure you had survived.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s lies. He’s telling you more lies.”

“Aramis didn’t tell me any of that. It all came from our fellow musketeers and Michel’s soldiers who were there and who witnessed the incident. They didn’t know what he was doing but as soon as I heard about the Spanish creeping up behind you I worked it out.”

“It’s not credible.”

“It is because it was Aramis making that shot to save your life. He didn’t miss because it was _you_ Porthos.”

Athos finally walked around the desk and leaned on it in front of his friend. 

“He has barely said a word. Exhaustion and guilt weigh down on him heavily. I spent most of the night sitting by the bed watching him fight his demons, thrashing and sweating and battling forces only he could see. No wonder he’s exhausted. If you could bring yourself to go and see him…?”

Porthos shook his head slowly, his expression still fierce and unwavering.

“I don’t have to listen to this. I came here to tell you that I won't stay here while he’s here. Can’t look at him. Can’t hear his excuses. Can’t hear anyone else, especially my close friends, defending him.”

“And what exactly would you have me do?”

“Send me somewhere, anywhere, on a mission.”

“I hear there’s a vacancy for a sniper down south.”

“Fuck you.”

That drew a rare smile from Athos but he reached back behind him and pulled a letter from a pile of papers on the desk. 

“A simple task then. Deliver a letter to the Captain at Lyon. It’s of little consequence. I was going to send a party of cadets but if you really need to distance yourself from us then let d’Artagnan ride with you at noon and take your time.”

“It’s not you I need to get away from. Just him.”

“You’ll have to deal with Aramis sooner or later.”

“Not if I have any say in it.”

Sighing, Athos put the letter in Porthos’ hands and awkwardly hugged his resistant shoulders. 

“Be safe, my friend. And remember what you mean to me. Don’t let this come between us.”

Porthos adopted a pout and let out a deep sigh then turned without further comment leaving Athos to wonder how many missions he would have to despatch him on before he was willing to find forgiveness. 

So far, being a friend was proving more challenging than being a Captain. 

 

\-----------------

 

Aramis woke with the sudden alertness of a war-hardened soldier. 

D’Artagnan held up both hands and continued his way in through the door, the light sunlight straining outside indicating that it was still early.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“It’s not hard to do. I sleep little and lightly these days. Athos woke me earlier when he left and he barely made a noise.”

D’Artagnan sat on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?” 

“Sore and sorry, not necessarily in that order.”

“You don’t have to keep apologising.”

“I do and I will.”

“Fine, as long as you realise that I shall ignore all expressions of contriteness from this point onwards.”

That raised a small smile, which d’Artagnan returned with a beaming one of his own. 

“You seem better today.”

“My ribs would like you to know that they sincerely beg to differ.”

“Bad?”

“Broken. But nothing I haven’t healed from before.”

“I’ll send the medic to tend to you. And arrange for some food, I’ll get you some bread and cheese and ….”

Aramis put a firm hand on d’Artagnan’s and they studied each other for a moment. 

“Too much too soon?” asked d’Artagnan. 

Aramis just nodded. His face and neck were still dirty and the streaks of his tears ran in visible tracks down his cheeks. His beard was longer than d’Artagnan had ever seen it and though in theory he had slept there was a heavy weariness about his expression that remained. When Aramis saw that his calloused fingers and dirty fingernails were being studied he went to shift his hand away but it was grabbed and held tight. 

“You said things last night that scared me,” said d’Artagnan earnestly. “I’ve been summoned to go on a mission later today. I’ll be away for a week or so but I need some reassurance that you’ll definitely be here when I return. Don’t make me worry about you. You’ve already stolen enough of my tears to last a lifetime.”

Aramis licked his lips and said carefully, “I can’t make any promises.”

“Actually, you can, especially this one.”

“I don’t know what’s in store for me. Treville may have something planned.”

“He wouldn’t dare!”

“Well, possibly not, but who knows? It might be best if I go away for a short while at least. Give … _people_ …. time to calm down and adjust to me being back.”

“I’m accompanying the _people_ in question on the mission, so don’t worry, you can relax and recover here in peace. Maybe just stay here in Athos’ room this morning until we’ve gone.”

Aramis frowned and fiddled with edges of the bedding. 

“Ahh. So this mission is really a journey of avoidance.”

D’Artagnan huffed and made a face. 

“That’s an indelicate way of putting it.”

“But a truth nonetheless.”

“It might be what he needs to put everything in perspective.”

“Oh I think Porthos has already done that, hence the anger.”

Aramis heard a chuckle and raised an eyebrow at d’Artagnan. “What?”

“You’ve finally just managed to utter Porthos’ name. I feel we’ve had one big breakthrough today already. Now go back to sleep my friend. You’ve earned it.”

 

\-------------------

 

Porthos stood in the doorway and looked at the pale figure sprawled on the bed, unruly dark hair caught by the rays of the rising morning sun. 

He locked the door behind him and moved forward, unheeded.

The rage inside him stirred and swilled around alongside something else he was trying not to think about. The sight of the man on the bed, face down, dirty shirt hanging loose over half-undone braies made Porthos’ throat constrict. This was so unfair, it hurt, yet he couldn’t help himself. Not now. Not with this burning anger driving him on.

He leaned down and pulled up the shirt, revealing smooth pale skin at the base of his spine. Porthos needed more and pulled down the braies, exposing the ass cheeks fully. The man’s grunt as he shifted position echoed Porthos’ own as he undid his own trousers and knelt on end of the bed. 

The sight before him made his cock harden. He reached down and began stroking himself, feeling desire warring with anger, making his blood pulse and pump. He wanted to punish and inflict pain but knew he would demand love and comfort in return. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. 

His name was muttered from further up the bed and that was all Porthos needed to move forward and push in on nothing more than a handful of spit and the overwhelming need to make another body ache as his did. 

The sharp cry of pain satisfied and horrified him equally but he pushed in further, not waiting for the flesh surrounding his cock to adjust. More cries, a tremulous shudder, his name panted again and again, and Porthos knew he was not going to last long. One hand braced himself, the other lay flat on the top of the spine, pressing down on the shoulders, stopping any resistance, forcing the body to relent to his hard thrusts. 

Sliding his fingers up, he clutched a handful of hair, squeezing and tugging it, pulling and pushing. As he fucked the body mercilessly and heard himself pant and strain with the intensity and he lifted up the hair, exposing the neck then bit down hard with blunt teeth, marking his assault even as he came and heard an accompanying scream. 

Porthos’ heart raced and his hand was still entwined in the hair when a breathless voice said, “Well, that’s one way to show that you’re sorry for avoiding me.”

A grunt was the only reply Porthos could manage. 

“At least you could say hello and tell me how much you missed me.”

At the lack of a response Porthos grunted as the body beneath him lifted, twisted and turned, pushing him off, pulling him on so they were facing each other. 

Dark eyes narrowed and studied him carefully. 

“That was particularly brutal. Was I paying for my sins or yours?”

Porthos groaned and kissed the lips firmly, then softly, then he just rested his lips against the others while their bodies settled together.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You know I like it when you use me.”

“No, don’t say that.”

“It’s true. We both know it. But I won’t say it if you stop saying you’re sorry.”

“Deal. But that leaves us with two less things to talk about.”

“I’m sure we’ll find something to discuss. Starting with you finally saying a proper hello.”

Porthos smiled into the lips then kissed them and said simply, “Hello Fidel.”


	5. Unwavering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos steps up.

Aramis waited for Athos to return, but when the sun was well-risen and he had not been summoned he decided to venture out. Like all his timing lately, it was a mis-step and he had to back into the shadows of the courtyard landing while Porthos and d’Artagnan steadied their horses as their supplies were packed into the saddlebags. 

One hand clutching his aching ribs, the other tucking in his dirty shirt, Aramis leaned on the side of a post and watched. It was his first real chance to observe his friend – his former friend perhaps – and it pained him to have to do it whilst hiding. 

Porthos looked well. Healthy, but strained, his expression grim and distracted. As he tied the bandana around his head Aramis noticed that his hair was now shorter than it had been two years ago. It made him run a hand through his own bedraggled hair, which was long and knotted and terribly neglected. As Porthos patted around his weaponry, clearly missing something crucial, a man came jogging out from the passageway leading to the barracks holding a pistol. Aramis tracked him across the courtyard and straightened as he watched him reach Porthos, laughing and handing the weapon over with a smile.

They said some words which he couldn’t distinguish, heads close, the man still grinning, his hand lingering on Porthos' shoulder until the big man also relinquished a private smile and patted the man fondly on his back. 

Something about the body language and the way they leant in to speak made Aramis frown.

An arm settled gently over Aramis' shoulder, making him flinch. 

“Angels weep to see such a miserable expression on such a beautiful face. You need some tending to, mon ami.”

“Your physician is a cruel and heartless man. He paid me a visit not an hour ago as you well know, and if you try to make me relent to his torture again I shall refuse.”

Athos shot him a dry look. 

“As a medic you should be accepting of any treatment prescribed. But that’s not the type of tending to I mean.”

“I’m afraid the response is the same. I am in no mood to strike up any sort of dalliance with either new or old paramours.”

Aramis bit his lip and dropped his eyes then looked back at Porthos only to see he and d’Artagnan disappearing out the gates, their horses swaying unhurriedly. 

A deep sigh made Aramis look sideways at Athos’ long-suffering expression.

“I shall not force you to pay your lovers any attention. Nor shall I call the physician any sooner than is needed. The tending to will be done in the bath house behind the baker’s, just around the corner. Treville’s coffers allow for a certain amount of weekly expenses and I have taken the liberty to designate this week’s coinage to travel in the direction of the bath house attendants. You shall have peace and quiet and hot water for the afternoon.”

“I shudder at the thought of sharing baths with chattering, gossiping merchants.”

“Did I not just mention peace and quiet? Treville’s reserves are quite substantial and on this occasion they will allow you complete privacy.”

“Really, I am not ready. Besides, I have no fresh clothes to change in to.”

“Aramis,” said Athos gently, leading him forward and through the garrison gates, “You are coated in residue from two years of battle, grief and lack of attention. A change of clothes is awaiting you there in the bath house, as well as a bottle or three of better wine than I have allowed myself for many a year.” 

Despite arguing half-heartedly all the way there, Aramis soon found himself being gently pushed through the giant bath house doorway. 

“They have strict instructions to wash the muck off you, not let any ladies molest you, to avoid unnecessary chatter and to bring you home safely before supper.”

“Supper!” spluttered Aramis, “I shall be a wrinkled old prune if I say here that long!” 

But Athos had already gone, leaving Aramis to his watery fate. 

 

\-----------------------------

 

Athos hadn’t mentioned the haircut. Nor the sharp blade that sliced through his whiskers and trimmed his beard. And whatever vague delight Aramis thought the bath might offer was completely and utterly eclipsed by the real thing. 

Steam intoxicated and sent his head spinning in the best possible way while his body revelled in the rare chance to take its fill of the endless, constant stream of hot water that the servants poured into his tub. The scent of herbs assaulted his nostrils. Thyme? Fennel? Mint? He couldn’t escape the bliss long enough to test his knowledge of those aromas. 

And with the capitulation of his body also came the unravelling of his thoughts and memories. That part wasn’t relaxing, nor did it heal his angst, no, it was just the chance to allow a slow unwinding and sobering acceptance of his nightmares. 

He recalled the terror of his isolation in the initial frantic departure. Treville had warned him it would come. Tried to prepare him. But knowing he was going to be alone was nothing compared to the terrifying moment when he really did find himself set adrift into the unknown. He couldn’t be a musketeer, had no history as a renowned marksman, was no longer whispered about as a great lover of women, had broken The Inseparables up the moment he agreed to leave and betray them. He was nothing. No-one. Just a peasant Spanish man trying to make a living offering his services to shoot game or fowl or labour silently so as not to attract attention. 

Attention was something Aramis had always coveted and dealt with accordingly. It got him into trouble, it drew him adulation, it was occasionally an inconvenience, but it was always there and he welcomed it. 

But being sent over the border, he’d been told to shun it at all costs. No smile, no wit, no goading or provoking, no smouldering looks or salacious comments. He was nothing exceptional and never could be again, and that went against his grain and wounded him gravely. 

But not nearly as much as the bewildering moment when the drama abated and the blood stopped rushing through his veins and he realised that he was truly alone and heading forward into the unknown without his comrades. No Athos, no d’Artagnan and no Porthos. Maybe not ever again. 

And now, here he was, a husk with no substance, having nothing to offer, feeling adrift from his friends, shunned by his best friend, not knowing how to repair their relationship, if it was even able to be salvaged.

The thought of his friendship with Porthos never being fixed chilled him to the bone and it was an icy dread that no amount of warm baths could ever thaw. 

 

\------------------------------------

 

“And there you are.”

The calm delight was clear in Athos’ pleased tone and the rare genuine smile that broke out on his face. He pointed at the musketeer uniform.

“Treville kept it all these years, awaiting your return.”

Aramis wrinkled his nose and looked down, feeling he should affect a royal bow but finding himself unable to put it into action. He huffed then rubbed a finger over the dull buckle on his uniform. 

“At least he might have polished out the tarnish.”

“Nobody will notice the buckle. They’ll be too busy marvelling at the man.”

Another loud huff and Aramis gave Athos a pointed look. 

“Too much flattery in one day. Anyone perceptive would think you were buttering me up for something.”

“ _Moi?_ Never. Just to see my friend back in his rightful place – here in the garrison, in his musketeer’s uniform – it feels right.”

“Wearing the uniform doesn’t make me a musketeer. I have a long way to go before I can accept that honour again.”

“Balderdash. If you look in the mirror you’ll see what I see. You are one of the finest musketeers I know.”

“You’re forgetting to use the past tense.”

Athos ignored him and instead went to drag Aramis over to look at himself in the mirror, but Aramis pulled his arm back and shook his head. 

“You might like what you see. I don’t,” he stated bluntly. 

Athos studied him for a moment then pulled back and nodded. 

“Too much too soon?”

“You’re channelling d’Artagnan with your enthusiasm. I fear you will strain a muscle if you try any harder. Truly, I prefer my Athos to be more taciturn and impenetrable. Especially now.”

“I’m sorry. I shall revert to type accordingly. But sit with me, please.” 

With a sigh, Aramis scraped a chair across the floor and sat close but facing away slightly from Athos. 

Clearly he wasn’t about to initiate a conversation so Athos poured him a glass of wine and took a long drink before venturing forth. 

“Was the bath to your liking? Relaxing?” 

“Thought provoking.”

“Ahh, I see.”

“Cleansing the outside and dressing me up in a respectable uniform doesn’t wash away the murkiness of my soul.” Aramis grimaced then glanced up at Athos, “I suspect you fully understand that sentiment which is why you have been tasked to babysit me while d’Artagnan is minding Porthos and escorting him as he gets as far away from me as possible.”

Athos sighed, not denying the truth. 

“It won’t be forever. He’s hurt because he cares.”

“He’s hurt because _I_ hurt him. Porthos takes longer than any of us to work himself up to a state of true rage and resentment but once there I’m not sure that anybody could draw him out of it.”

“You could.”

“In the past, maybe. Not now.”

“Not yet, but it will all work out. Give it time.”

Aramis hunched forward and ran his fingers through his hair then studied his nails which were clean now but broken and torn. 

“Time is something that I now have plenty of. I should leave here, make a new start.”

“No.”

Looking up at the firm, loud response, Aramis made a face.

“You sound very certain.”

“I am.”

“A few days ago you were certain you wanted me to be lynched at the gallows.”

“Last night you expressed a wish to leave this mortal life, Aramis. I suspect both of us have expressed outrageous declarations in order to escape dealing with painful truths.”

“I don’t know where to begin,” murmured Aramis, dropping his head again. “I’ve always been so sure of my place in the world. Even when things have gone wrong I’ve known who would back me up, who to turn to, where to go, how to fight back. Now, I’m lost.”

“That’s why I’m here to help you,” said Athos, as he removed something from a long box beside the chair and placed it in front of Aramis on the table. 

“My musket.” 

“It says a lot for our friendship that you’re currently giving it a bigger smile than you’ve ever given me.”

“It doesn’t answer me back,” Aramis informed him with the hint of a grin and he picked up the long weapon and ran his fingers lovingly over the scrolls and embellishments that decorated the dark metal. 

“I’m glad you’re pleased to be reunited with your musket because you’ll be making good use of it, starting tomorrow.”

 

\-----------------------------------

 

Athos was seasoned in affecting confidence and conviction when in actual fact he harboured uncertainty and doubts.

He had lined up those most likely to be influenced first. The new cadets, the ones who hadn’t yet met Aramis, who didn’t understand what a superb marksman could do. So eager to please, so desperate to learn and master, they weren’t yet jaded by the cynicism of battle and war. 

Some of those cynics did stand at the back watching, however. They had seen Aramis, befriended and admired him. They were also well aware of the hurt and pain that had befallen their Captain and his leading men two years ago and though nobody would speak it to his face, Athos knew well of the rumours swirling around about Aramis’ return. 

Fighting for the Spanish never won informants any friends. Nobody loved or trusted a spy. Killing Frenchmen, even if by order of the King, raised the hackles of even the most open-minded soldier. The shooting of Porthos had been witnessed by many of them. There were theories that Aramis had actually aimed for the spot between his brows and had missed. Wild speculation that perhaps he had taken Porthos down on purpose, therefore saving his life. Unfortunately not enough men took to that idea for it to gain traction. Too incredible for most. Suspicion reigned supreme. 

Disloyalty also sat heavily in his own chest. 

There was the slight Spanish lilt that now swayed Aramis’ accent. A constant reminder to anyone whose ear he held. 

Two years of Aramis being unseen, unknown. Was he just as good as ever? Had he lost his edge? They hadn’t spoken of his years as a Spanish soldier. Was he simply one of the troops making up the numbers? He was a sniper when they found him but was that usual? Was he in practice? Had he missed his French targets so often on purpose that he’d forgotten how to hit the centre? 

And then there was the tremor Athos noticed in his hands. Slight, and Aramis hid it well, but it was there. The nightmares had plagued him once again during the night to the point where he’d lay there for hours, barely dozing. No wonder he was jittery.

“If it gets too much, tell me,” Athos whispered in Aramis’ ear even as he nudged him forward to address the cadets. It felt like a betrayal of his confidence, to expect him to falter, but Aramis didn’t seem to take it as such and even expressed his thanks before stepping out towards the gathering of expectant young novices. 

Athos hated having doubts. But he remembered just how good Aramis had been and he believed strongly in his heart that Aramis had shot Porthos in the temple on purpose and that was not a shot taken and made successfully by anyone but the best. 

He had to find some way of working Aramis back into the fold. He didn’t have to be liked. Not yet. Just accepted. Any soldier of value knew it was better to serve side by side with the best soldier in the regiment, even if they were hated rather than to stand shoulder to shoulder with your best friend who was the worst soldier in the regiment.

Aramis was definitely one of the best. He didn’t have Porthos’ strength, nor Athos’ own skill with the sword, nor could he run as fast as d’Artagnan. But he could do things with a pistol, arquebus and musket that Athos had never seen done before. The precision and balance that helped him shoot so accurately also gave him his exquisite timing in a fight. His anticipation and intuition gave him a keen sense of awareness that many an enemy had regretted in their final moments of life. 

All these skills were fine, but he had one other set of skills which was sorely underrated and had been almost as sadly missed as his shooting skills on the battlefield.

Faith, charm, wit, compassion, hope, empathy. There were many terms that could be used to describe Aramis’ general outlook on life and the qualities that he bore. It all added up to optimism, comfort and support. Aramis was a man with great reserves of his own and a ready willingness to share his emotional sustenance and lightness of spirit with others. That was something which had been so sorely missed. Athos knew it as a soldier and he was even more keenly aware of it as a leader. A nurturing healer was a rare sort in a regiment especially one imbued with unwavering faith. Athos had encountered many physicians and medics who plied their trade with greater knowledge and skill than Aramis but who were unable to go that step further to tend to the soul. 

He’d been watching Aramis closely since his return and he could tell that his emotions were spent. The reserves were dry and he could barely summon up enthusiasm to speak, least of all motivate himself and others. The musketeer uniform no longer hugged his body and instead hung loose, emphasising his weight loss and lack of condition. Most noticeable of all was the fact that Athos had not once seen or heard Aramis pray since his return. 

Athos had never been sequestered to spy. Not for any extended amount of time. But he knew others who had. It usually fell to the loners, the skilled, reserved, taciturn types, men capable of blending in and who drew little attention to their personalities even in their usual regiment. 

Aramis had his secrets and he usually kept them well. He was discreet when he felt he had to be and fought passionately for the right to keep his own counsel if challenged. But that side of him was always balanced by his gregarious nature. Arrogance, some called it. He was convivial and sociable and drew attention to himself seemingly without effort. So Athos imagined how near-impossible it must have been to shut that part of his personality off entirely. 

The only place confidence was evident now was in his skills as a shooter. Athos could see that clearly, in the way Aramis held first the pistol, then the arquebus, now the musket, running through their various attributes, explaining the benefits and pitfalls of each. 

Watching the cadets closely, Athos could see the expected arrogance of youth as a few crossed their arms, bored, knowing it all and then some and not needing weaponry explained to them by someone rumoured to be a traitor who had actively shot the very French soldiers they were aspiring to be. They had to be taught a quick lesson.

Athos went across to the bench and grabbed what he needed. He dropped a silver coin into the empty green bottle and rattled it noisily in one hand. Aramis turned and stared at it then at Athos’ other hand holding a blindfold while the cadets looked at the diversion with vague curiosity. 

Aramis frowned and shook his head, an inflexible no. That game was reserved for Porthos, Athos realised. Still, there was a point to prove and with a quick sly wink at Aramis, Athos tipped the coin from the bottle into his hand and threw it high into the air, spinning up and up, glinting silver in the sunshine. 

Aramis watched it for a moment then just as the coin reached the top of its arc in one swift action he lifted his musket, stretched his arm up above his head and fired. 

The coin was thrown off its trajectory and spat back before landing over in the middle of the courtyard. There was a tiny pause then the garrison erupted and the cadets and many more seasoned soldiers ran forward to inspect the tiny target. 

“Through the centre?” asked Athos, feeling the thrill of the old game. 

Athos blew the powder off his musket and with an exaggerated dour scowl said, “Please,” then walked off without looking back. 

Excited chatter and laughter drew Athos’ attention back to the crowd of cadets and musketeers. 

“Captain, look!” exclaimed one young soldier, raising the coin high. 

Athos kept his expression wholly unimpressed, as befitted the occasion. He asked to see it then raised one eyebrow along with the coin for all to see, so they could all marvel at the hole blown clean through its centre. 

“I’ve seen him do better,” he lied, tossing the coin back to the throng then walking away with what he thought was a sufficiently indifferent visage. 

He found Aramis back in his room, sitting hunched by the fire, shivering. The weapons had been discarded in a pile by the door which worried Athos more than the shivering. It was very unlike Aramis to drop his weapons so casually. 

“That was very impressive.”

“No more party tricks.”

“Fine, but they’ll respect you now.”

“You think blowing a hole in a coin wipes the slate clean? That it will make them forget what I’ve done and what I’ve become?”

“I think it will remind a few people that you are as good as you’ve ever been and for the others it will get you their attention.”

“I don’t want attention.”

“I won’t let you hide away. You are a fabulous soldier, an even better man and you have so much to offer not just to your friends but to the whole regiment.”

Aramis choked out a laugh of disbelief then buried his face in his hands. 

Athos went to leave then hesitated and knelt down in front of Aramis, taking his hands away from his face and holding them firmly in his own. 

“I’m here for you and I will help you through this. As will d’Artagnan. As will Treville.” He hesitated and Aramis looked at him knowingly, catching the pause and understanding the reason for it. Athos added firmly, “Porthos is going to be there for you too.”

“I notice you’re embracing a lot of ridiculous ideas today, my friend.”

“He will. And when he does he’ll help you more than any of us because he knows how to get through to you better than the likes of me who just seems to manage to irritate and butt heads with you.”

“You’re a very well-meaning irritation.”

Athos went to stand and paused to kiss Aramis’ forehead on the way, holding his head in his hands. 

“My brother, I love you and I’d move the earth for you if I thought it would ease your pain.”

“If only it were that easy,” he heard Aramis murmur as he closed the door behind him. 

 

\----------------------------

 

It was hardly a sight to raise alarm. A young lad, bedraggled, starving, nervous and dirty, pitching forward into the garrison courtyard on a horse exhibiting the exact same qualities as its rider. 

Athos observed from the landing, slightly curious, but not nearly enough to investigate and take charge. So he watched with some interest as the boy’s story crept across the garrison, changed hands up the chain of command until finally someone raised their face up to him and cried out, “Porthos and d’Artagnan have been ambushed, Captain. They’re holed up and injured!”


	6. Unremarkable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This accidentally turned into a monster chapter. Two For The Price Of One where not a lot happens but Porthos gets to ponder over Aramis, which is never usually a bad thing._

“I’m coming with you.”

“After what I saw you do to that coin yesterday, I should hope so.” But as Aramis bent to collect his weapons belt and made a loud hiss of pain Athos added, “However as you are nowhere near fully fit I can’t risk you in direct combat.”

“I’ve done more fighting these last two years than you’ve done in the last decade.”

“Be that as it may, you would struggle to lift a pail of water with those broken ribs, and I am in charge of this operation so you will be assigned to medical duties and I will allow you the use of your weapons only if necessary.”

Athos suppressed a smile as Aramis adopted a sour expression and proceeded to load up his belts and uniform with a vast array of weaponry. Many things had changed but Aramis’ dislike of orders contrary to his wishes apparently had not. 

“Captain!” 

Recognising the voice Athos immediately turned away from Aramis and strode across the courtyard to greet the speaker. 

Aramis only glanced at them initially, but as the conversation continued and appeared to get more heated he frowned and looked closer at the young man airing his grievances with his superior. He could only catch the occasional word on the wind but heard Porthos’ name mentioned more than once. 

Athos turned and for a brief moment fixed Aramis with his dourest expression, then turned away and put an arm over the shoulders of the still-arguing man, escorting him back out of sight in the direction of the living quarters. 

Appearing again after a few minutes, Athos seemed in no mood for questioning, and mounted his horse quickly and directed the troops forward without any hesitation. 

Aramis only lingered for a second. A single puzzled frown in the direction of the living quarters then he urged his horse on through the garrison gates. 

 

\----------------------------

 

That first day was a long ride. Aramis said little and rode close to Athos. He seemed mainly concerned with not crying out in pain as his ribs jarred with the movement of his horse. When they slept for the night at a small inn Aramis made sure he took the room furthest away from the company and he barred the door so nobody could enter. 

Athos noted this as it was he who tried to go in to check up on Aramis, only to hear him moaning and cursing in Spanish behind the locked door.

Athos let it be and made no mention of it in the morning. 

On the second day’s ride Aramis fared little better with his injuries, but as they rode closer to their destination he seemed to need to ask more questions. 

“That man you were speaking to as we left the garrison …”

Athos made no effort to recall such a man so Aramis continued. 

“Dark hair. A bit taller than me. He appeared upset with you …”

Athos spurred his horse on a bit so he rode slightly ahead of Aramis. 

“Before d’Artagnan and Porthos left on their journey I saw him talking to them. Well, specifically, to Porthos. They seemed to know each other quite well. They seemed very …. close.”

Aramis prompted his horse until he drew level with Athos, the blatant disregard only making him more inquisitive. 

“I believe it was the same man who burst into your room on my first night back at the garrison. If I recall correctly, he was looking for Porthos.”

“What of him?” 

“Well, I was just wondering who he is. I don’t recognise him.”

Athos chewed over an answer for a long moment then said, “I think he’s one of the young soldiers Porthos has been mentoring.”

“Mentoring?” Aramis thought about that for a moment. “In what way exactly?”

Athos pulled his horse up and twisted to look at Aramis. 

“If you’re going to interrogate me about every little change that’s happened since you died … went away … then it’s going to be a very tiresome process. Many things have happened to all of us. We all had to try to move on, we all had to fill our lives with things and people who weren’t you just to try to make your absence less painful. I’m sure you would not begrudge Porthos the chance to make new acquaintances because you weren’t here to be by his side day in and day out as you had always been before.” 

Aramis took his time considering the import of those words, allowing Athos to edge his horse ahead to meet one of the outriders galloping back toward their party. 

“What news do you have?”

It was not promising. 

As the outrider changed to a fresher horse and went galloping back the way he had come, Athos beckoned Aramis forward. 

“Porthos and d’Artagnan got caught in a storm. They were unable to reach the inn at the next town and a local passer-by in a wagon told them to follow him to a large farmhouse to ask for shelter. Porthos and Aramis were reluctantly let inside while the wagon driver and his family were trying to secure the back of the wagon when two men in Spanish uniform ran out of the barn and let themselves into the farmhouse. They didn’t notice the wagon through the pouring rain, but as soon as they were inside fighting began and gunshots rang out. The wagon driver gathered his family and rode off then summoned the young lad to ride to Paris to warn us. He’s waiting for us should we wish to speak to him. More Spanish soldiers have turned up each day and there are scores of them now surrounding the farmhouse. A regiment reached the farm yesterday and they’ve dug in hard to keep a small section open to us should we feel the need to risk our lives and get into the farmhouse.”

Aramis frowned and shook his head. “This is way further north than normal to be having large groups of Spanish soldiers milling around. Why would they be focussing all their attention on a country farmhouse? And one which only has two musketeers in it, not anybody important or of diplomatic note?”

“There must be someone or something else inside that we don’t know about. A simple skirmish between a couple of soldiers in a chance encounter doesn’t lead to a full blown siege.”

A full blown siege it turned out to be. They reached the farmhouse late in the morning to find a large contingent of Spanish with a small hold of French soldiers defending a position directly in front of the farmhouse.

“How many are in there?” demanded Athos as the musketeers around him began taking up their stances to defend. 

“Your two men plus we held off the Spanish long enough to get six of our men inside to help them defend the back. But we couldn’t afford to let any more go in or we’d be too depleted out here.”

“Why not just help our men escape and cover them as they run out?”

The man smiled and nodded at the farmhouse. 

“That would have been easier. But word has come back out to us that the building secretly houses a huge Spanish arsenal down in its cellar. I’ll let you inspect it for yourself. There’s a reason why we have to defend that farmhouse at all costs.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Right. We get Porthos’ attention then we’re going in.”

Athos quickly divided his men and selected the team to go inside then looked at Aramis. 

“Five shots means get ready to open the door?”

“It does.”

Without hesitation, Aramis arranged five muskets then quickly fired five times into the air, exchanging the muskets quickly one by one.

“If they’re ready Porthos will drop something out of the window,” explained Athos to the leader of the other regiment.

“I wish we’d known your code when we were trying to organise the first lot of men to go in,” he replied, shaking his head. 

A large chair suddenly came flying through one of the broken windows. 

“There’s our sign. Go!” yelled Aramis. 

“Simply dropping a small cloth outside would have sufficed,” exclaimed Athos as he charged forward to the huge old oak door which was now being opened amid a hail of shots coming from the trees on either side of them.

Porthos roared as the last man came through the door then he heaved a huge piece of lumber into place to bar the entrance once more. 

“What took you so long?” exclaimed Porthos as he hugged Athos and gripped hands with the other musketeers. “We’ve been having a lovely time, fending off our Spanish friends with their own ammunition and eating our way through their supplies of food and ale. The only thing we don’t have is a physician and medical supplies and d’Artagnan especially needs stitching so I hope you’ve brought ….”

The words dried up when he noticed Aramis leaning against the wall.

Porthos shot Athos a withering look. 

“Why would you bring him?”

“You need help defending this arsenal and you said yourself that you need a medic and medical supplies.”

“Don’t even think it.”

“Porthos, you need that head wound seen to.”

“’S’fine.”

“It’s not. Aramis?”

“He’s not touchin’ me.”

“If the wound gets infected ….”

“It’ll still be better than having him come near me.”

“It's your choice,” said Athos, “But I trust you won’t deny d’Artagnan the medical treatment he offers.”

 

\------------------------------

 

The standoff continued through the middle of the day, both between the French and the Spanish and between Porthos and Aramis. 

Porthos rested then adopted a position by the window. Aramis checked on d’Artagnan, murmured a soft hello to his sleeping form and kissed his brow before shifting his attention to the other injured, assessing their wounds and deciding who to treat first.

It was quiet outside and with lookouts established at the windows and doors the rest of the soldiers took time to eat and rest. 

Athos watched as Aramis placed some items on a tray then hesitantly crossed the room to where Porthos sat.

“The wound on your head has to be cleaned up. If you won’t let me stitch it then at least clean it up yourself. Here.”

Aramis put a bowl of water, some cloths and a bottle of alcohol on the table then stepped away. He kept his gaze averted only until Porthos turned away and then Athos appreciated how intently Aramis was watching him. 

Knowing Porthos was full of resentment towards Aramis was easier to bear than having it clearly demonstrated in full view in front of him, Athos guessed. 

A cry from one of the injured soldiers luckily drew Aramis’ attention away and he began to concentrate on his other charges. And it was then that Athos noticed Porthos glancing up from his position by the window, ostensibly holding the wet cloth up to dab his wounds but it was clear that he was also using it to hide the fact that he was now watching Aramis closely. 

Athos raised his eyebrows. Having two of his best friends sullenly spying on each other was a progress of sorts, he supposed. Then he moved forward and tipped his head back, silently summoning Porthos to one side. 

“By all means carry on your grudge when we’re not in a life-threatening situation, but as we are under siege and Aramis is a good medic and the best shot in our company by far, I suggest you suspend hostilities and work with him until the danger has passed.”

No sooner had Athos given the directive when the large window shattered and a hail of glass and metal spluttered into the room in a concentrated barrage. He dropped instantly, without a noise, Porthos ducking then crawling over to him, checking the damage. 

“Athos is hit!” he cried. Then he looked around wildly, surveying the damage, searching for help. “Aramis! Get over here! He’s bleeding!”

Swearing, Porthos tried to staunch the bleeding high on his chest as Aramis knelt down with a grunt and checked to make sure Athos was breathing. 

Aramis pushed Porthos’ hands away from the wound. 

“Let me look,” he said, bending low with another stifled groan as his ribs protested, checking the damage to Athos. “I don’t think it’s deep but the ball will definitely have to come out.”

Pushing himself up to rise, Aramis let out a cry of pain and knelt back down, clutching his side. 

“What do you need?” asked Porthos, voice tight, controlled. 

Aramis didn’t look at him but he nodded gratefully. “All the tools are by the soldier I was tending to, on the table. Bring whatever alcohol you can find. And I’ll need some more cloths and water.”

It was a fairly straightforward procedure. Athos woke and had to be held still, but thankfully he lost consciousness again when the musket ball was extracted. 

Very little was said as they tended to Athos. Aramis concentrated hard and if he felt any further pain from his ribs he hid it well. Porthos bit back everything he felt like verbalising, and having Aramis so close like this, hearing him breathe, watching the sweat slide down his brow, seeing the familiar intensity in his eyes as he focussed on Athos, it made his head swim. He’d managed to keep his distance from Aramis since his reappearance, and that kept his anger simmering nicely from afar. The thought of what had happened, the deception, reliving his grief over and over then siphoning it into boiling resentment, it gave Porthos the strength to stay angry. 

But here he didn’t have distance. And the thought of having Aramis back was different to actually having him back. He was here. Aramis was here. Porthos didn’t have to rely on memories any more to recall his friend and their moments together. He was here, now, alive if not completely well. And it was only that burning umbrage stopping Porthos from reaching out and pulling him into a very long, very overdue hug. 

Aramis said something to him and it was all too much. Porthos sat back on his haunches then rose and walked away. 

“… need you to cut the thread,” Aramis repeated, but Porthos couldn’t turn around or the wall he had built up would shatter. 

Porthos heard a resigned sigh from Aramis and then another barrage of bullets fired into the room, making him dive to the floor as wood and stone splintered around him.

“Aramis!” yelled Porthos, looking around frantically before spotting the figure crawling across the floor to a pile of weapons brought up from the cellar. “Get down!” he cried as Aramis gritted his teeth and slid his body upright against the wall beside a window. 

“Bring me as many muskets and weapons as you can gather,” yelled Aramis, violently ridding the window of dangerous broken shards with the butt of his musket before loading it. “Go to the cellar and start bringing up more of the Spanish stash. I’ll need all the ammunition you can find.”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re hurt and you need to look after the injured.”

Aramis took aim and fired, nodding at the resulting cry. “The injured will all be dead soon if we don’t repel the Spanish. We need to fight now or we’ll all die. Now go!”

It was a scramble to get the fit and semi-fit organised and Porthos sent two cadets down to fetch some of the Spanish supplies. He kept looking at Aramis who shot and reloaded at a remarkably quick and steady pace, cursing quietly when he wasted a shot, nodding with quiet satisfaction when he hit his target. But there were fewer shots going out compared to what was coming in and Porthos knew they had to speed things up.

“I’ll load. You shoot”

Aramis set his jaw, aimed and fired out into the forest. 

“Keep them coming.”

“Don’t waste any.”

A huff was the only reply as a musket ball splintered the window frame just near Aramis’ head. He replied with a steady shot and glanced sideways at Porthos as they heard a cry far over behind the tree line. 

“Stop gloating and concentrate on your job,” growled Porthos. 

Aramis did. For four hours. So good was his aim that it was decided – by all others – that he should have four soldiers beside him loading his weapons at all times, leaving him free to aim and fire. Porthos took position in the window on the other side of the door with two loading for him while six more musketeers held down the other windows. Anyone even vaguely fit scurried around either reloading or restocking from the cellar. 

Daylight and the Spanish both retreated together and gradually the restockers and reloaders found themselves redundant, finally sitting down to rest, leaving only a few musketeers to watch into the night. 

Porthos stopped looking out the window and leaned back against the wall. 

“How many did you get?” asked Willem, one of the other musketeer shooters, as he too finally stood back from his post.

“Dunno. But knowing how much weaponry we have here I bet it’ll make ‘em think twice before storming us.”

Willem smirked his agreement then turned his gaze to Aramis, who had slumped down to the floor, head in hands.

“Knowing we have him aiming at their filthy Spanish heads will also make them pause. I’ve never seen anything like it. I heard he was good, but to see him in action now - his skill is astonishing.”

Porthos shrugged, not disputing it but also not wanting to get into any sort of a discussion about Aramis.

Willem frowned. “He looks awful though. Barely conscious and more ill than those he’s been tending. We’ll need him fit by daylight as I’m sure the Spanish haven’t finished with us.”

He walked off leaving Porthos to mull over his options. He checked on d’Artagnan then on Athos, both sleeping soundly and watched over. The inevitable was delayed until he saw Aramis try to stand up and once again fall back, the pain too much. 

“Some people are worried that if you don’t get some sleep and re-bandage those ribs that you won’t be fit to fight tomorrow.”

“Are you one of those people?”

“You really don’t wanna know my opinion.”

“Well then leave me be.”

“Can’t. I promised Athos I’d look after everyone while he’s out of action. Unfortunately, that includes you.”

Aramis made to speak but Porthos cut him short. 

“You can either come with me and get your ribs re-bandaged by one of the soldiers then get some sleep or I’ll knock you out and the end result will be exactly the same.”

“That would seem rather counterproductive if you really want me fit.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” growled Porthos, “Nothing at all. But I made a promise and unlike you I intend to stay honourable.”

He didn’t wait around to help Aramis get up, nor to see if his order was obeyed, but later when he returned from checking to make sure that the farmhouse was secure and windows and doors guarded he saw that Aramis was leaning back on some blankets in the corner, his shirt unbuttoned and the fresh bandages evident. He had positioned himself as far away from the rest of the men as possible, right in the corner, the flickering light from the hearth barely reaching his features as he sat slumped against the wall. 

Porthos grabbed one of the lads ferrying bowls of stew around the room. He pointed at Aramis. 

“Has he eaten?”

“Wouldn’t touch it,” came the brief reply before the lad scurried off. 

Porthos sighed and cursed Athos for making him promise to look after Aramis. He scooped up a bowl of stew and a cup of wine for himself then grabbed the same again and headed for the corner. 

Nothing had to be said. Porthos put the offerings down then, leaving a good amount of distance between himself and Aramis, sat down against the wall and began to eat.

It was already dark outside. The night wasn’t cold but with barely any windows or shutters left unscathed by the fighting the breeze which blew through the farmhouse chilled the large room. Aramis had eaten a scarce amount but the wine was all gone and the cup had fallen from his hand, laying beside him onto the blanket. Porthos risked a glance sideways and saw that Aramis was going to doze as he sat – shirt open, back leaning against the cold stone wall – inviting all sorts of chills to have their way with his already weakened body. 

Porthos leaned over to rouse him then thought better of it and instead tossed his empty bowl over, hitting Aramis on the leg. He woke with a start and reached for his pistol in the same instant.

“You barely ate. At least lie down properly and get some sleep.”

Aramis didn’t protest or speak at all. He dropped his pistol then gingerly lowered his body down and curled up on his side, facing the wall, remaining silent. 

Porthos wasn’t ready to sleep. Nor to talk. Nor to find himself lying this close to someone he both loved and declared to despise. He rolled onto his side and watched Aramis for as long as the dying firelight allowed. When he saw him shiver he covered him with another blanket. When he heard him murmur protests in his sleep he shuffled closer to listen. 

Hell was tormenting Aramis. He moaned and rolled as he pleaded and begged in his fitful slumber. As the moon rose outside and cast a strange blue sheen through the window Porthos could make out tiny beads of sweat on his pale forehead. 

Pledges in Spanish and French fell from Aramis’ lips. Some were indecipherable to Porthos no matter what language was spoken. But the torment was clear and really needed no words. Every so often he would wake up with a start then groan and fall back on the blanket, begging sleep to take him properly. It never did. 

And somewhere in the middle of that long, moonlit night, as Aramis revealed his agony through his nightmares and gave voice to the pain that was clear in his demeanour and expression, Porthos found himself thinking less of his own grief and hurt and more about what the man lying beside him had experienced.

Somehow, as the betrayal and disloyalty quietened he began to hear and listen and understand that his was not the only grief and pain. He wouldn’t absolve Aramis of all the blame. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But he started to understand and fathom that what had happened to Aramis was not entirely of his making, and now it was all out of his control and it hurt.

Aramis suddenly awoke with a start and as if continuing his nightmare turned to Porthos and said simply, “When I shot you, I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I’d missed.”

“You didn’t miss.”

As Porthos responded he heard Aramis let out a deep breath. 

“Can you ever forgive me?” he whispered. 

“I don’t know,” admitted Porthos with a heavy sigh. He hesitated, trying to find the right words, then murmured wearily into the dark, “Go to sleep Aramis.”

And with those words Porthos knew he had taken a small step towards forgiving Aramis. 

“I need to explain to you …. to make you understand how sorry I am ….”

“No. Now’s not the time.”

“But what if you can’t ever ….”

“Shhhh. Stop it. Sleep.” Porthos paused for a long moment then closed his eyes tight and finally whispered up into the darkness, “It’ll all be okay.”

And with those words Aramis closed his eyes, let out a small breath and finally found hope that one day he would be forgiven. 

 

\--------------------------

 

When Porthos awoke it was Athos kneeling by his side, not Aramis. He looked about in confusion and saw Aramis across the room inspecting d’Artagnan’s wounds. That the young musketeer was chatting and taking sips from a cup made Porthos smile. 

“You look terrible,” observed Athos. 

“No worse than you, although I could definitely do with a few more hours sleep.”

“I awoke in the night. Looked for you and saw you over here with Aramis.” Athos raised his eyebrows and only barely stifled a grin.

“Yeah well, don’t get too excited. I promised you I’d look after him and I did. Can’t promise you any more favours.”

“How is he?”

Porthos huffed out a breath and glared at Athos, who added “I’m not trying to trap you. It’s a serious question. I need to know how he is faring. We have a long hard day ahead of us.”

“He’s fragile. Not eating. Not sleeping. Not himself.”

“But still hitting his targets.”

“Better than ever.”

“Look out for him. When you see him faltering take him aside and make him rest.”

“I’m not going to be his bloody nursemaid.”

“You know him better than any of us. You handle him better than any of us. I am injured and will not be able to give orders or be vigilant about his welfare. None of us will be sitting around deep in conversation today so you need not fear having any awkward lengthy encounters. All I ask is that you watch him closely and act when necessary.”

 

\--------------------------

 

It was a very long day. The Spanish didn’t seem keen to advance, but nor did they lessen their attack, the walls and window frames increasingly pocked with shot marks. Aramis stayed at his post by the window, his helpers loading and reloading until they asked for respite. But Aramis kept going. 

Mid-afternoon the alert went up when distinctive sounds of battle sounded from behind the tree line. Notably, of all the many shots that were fired none were aimed at the farmhouse. 

It took over an hour but eventually figures emerged from the trees. French soldiers, over a hundred of them. A cheer went up then it was bedlam. 

The regiment had not been coming to save them. Indeed they did not know anything of the siege at the farmhouse. They had knowledge of the immense stash of weaponry through spies hearing rumours and had advanced at their leisure, coming across another Spanish force advancing from the south to join their comrades then hurrying forward with more speed when details of the siege were learned. 

As much as their arrival was welcomed, it brought with it many more people to feed, house and provide medical attention to. Dozens of injured were carried in, many more still requiring attention walked of their own accord. 

Aramis went straight from snipering duties to the medical table. The incoming regiment medics had both been injured themselves and a physician from the nearby town had not yet been located. Porthos helped shift the recovering out and those in need of attention in and all the while Aramis laboured over blood and bodies.

It was well into the night when Porthos finally found a moment to stop and sit down. He surveyed the room, saw that all was under control, if not perfectly well, and then, as even he expected, as always, his gaze ended up resting on Aramis. 

The more Porthos stared at Aramis the more he noticed something else to further the knitting of his brow. His exhaustion was clear. The weight loss distinctive in the way his uniform hung loose and ill-fitting. And now, as Porthos watched the usually-dextrous fingers stitch up a nasty wide wound on a soldier’s leg he could see Aramis’ hands visibly shaking, even from where he was perched across the room. Aramis stepped back then wiped his pale brow and tried again, his hand trembling as he tried to begin the stitching. Again he stepped away and endeavoured to compose himself, leaning briefly on one of the few empty trestles, shoulders hunched, head down, frustrated and angry at himself. 

Two cadets were talking quietly behind Porthos, distracting him briefly. Their first real skirmish, he guessed. Only to be expected that they’d be as excited as they were scared. They were discussing the shots they’d made and the ones that had hit. Only a couple apparently but it was enough to make them gush with the achievement. 

“But did you see that sniper by the window there?”

“I did! I loaded the muskets for him while Phillipe was resting. Four of us loading and he kept going all day. Didn’t stop.”

“I heard that he hit every Spaniard he aimed at.”

“I heard that he is a Spaniard. Joubert said he is probably spying on us.”

“Gods, I hope that isn’t true. If he turns his muskets on us the whole room will be dead in under a minute.”

The other boy made a noise and shuddered. 

“Is that him over there? Stitching the wound?”

“Hard to tell.”

“What’s his name? We can ask someone.”

“Dunno. I just saw him shooting. If he’s a Spanish spy then whatever name he gives is probably false anyway.”

Porthos slowly rose and turned and leaned over the table separating him from the cadets. He loomed and glowered over the edge and said very, very firmly, “He is _not_ a Spanish spy. He’s one of the best musketeers you’ll ever meet and his name is Aramis.”

He scowled at the boys long enough to make his point, but when Porthos turned back he was angry. The lads had recognised the remarkable shooter, but had no idea who the man was who made those shots. They bought the lies told about him and didn’t even know his name. A remarkable shooter but an unremarkable man. 

Unremarkable. 

That was not a description Porthos would ever have used to refer to Aramis. Not ever. 

How had he managed to become nondescript? To strip himself of personality and be devoid of interest? 

Porthos put himself in the position of a Frenchman trying to assimilate into a Spanish regiment. It was impossible to keep your guard up all day every day. You would have to separate yourself from scrutiny. Or at least close scrutiny. Be valuable but not open to examination. It would take a monumental effort to keep up that façade and being unremarkable went against everything Aramis was and stood for. Yet here he was, back with his musketeers and continuing to isolate himself.

One last perusal of Aramis trying to finish up the stitching with his trembling hands decided it for Porthos. It was an easy thing but seemed so colossal. The old physician had turned up before darkness fell and had just finished bandaging an arm. Porthos summoned him over and pointed to Aramis, then his patient. 

“He needs to get some rest. Finish that off and call me if there’s any trouble, yeah?”

Porthos didn’t wait for a reply. He walked over and stood near Aramis, not close, but close enough to demand attention. 

“You gotta get some sleep. Not just shutting your eyes and having nightmares. Proper sleep.”

Aramis looked up and blinked slowly, as if not comprehending.

“You’ll end up doing someone an injury if you go on like this.”

As Aramis continued to just stare at him blankly, Porthos swore under his breath and grabbed his elbow, pulling and steering him through the building to a small room at the rear which held some old saddlery and a few grubby blankets thrown over a bed of stale straw. 

“They won’t bother you in here. You’ll get some peace and quiet.” When Aramis didn’t respond he cursed a bit louder, grabbed both his arms and pushed him down to sitting on the blankets. 

Aramis immediately clutched his ribs and bent double, moaning in pain and turning even paler, if possible. 

“Bloody hell. I’m …” Porthos bit back any _sorry_ that was threatening to bypass his resentment and blurt itself out and instead crouched down in front of Aramis, waiting for the ache to pass. 

“Exhaustion helps nobody. Someone’ll come and get you if you’re needed. And don’t think about leaving here. I’m posting someone outside to make sure nobody goes in and you don’t come out.” 

He quickly rose and shut the door on the way out before Aramis had the chance to question him. With his heart still struggling to recover from the bleakness it had been drowning in, this felt all too raw to deal with. 

 

\------------------------------

 

Another two hours and Porthos could feel his eyes closing. He stood up and resumed pacing, the only way to evade sleep it seemed. The main room of the farmhouse was full to the brim with the healthy and infirmed. He thought of Aramis taking up space alone in the room and felt a tad guilty, but not guilty enough he thought. He’d been fighting the urge to go and check on him ever since he closed the door and now with his own tiredness overcoming him it seemed right to cave in to the impulse.

Opening the door a fraction, Porthos stood still and listened. It was silent. No deep breathing or nightmarish ramblings. Was Aramis even in there? 

He entered the room and closed the door behind him. 

“You asleep?”

“Very much so.”

Porthos huffed and moved further into the room. 

“At least you’re not having any nightmares.”

Aramis actually laughed but his tone was unpleasant. 

“Oh don’t worry, there are plenty of nightmares to be had. But when you are a French spy surrounded by Spanish soldiers you quickly learn that to allow nightmares is to risk your life. Tossing and turning and crying out in French would have been fatal.”

“How the hell do you stop yourself from having nightmares?”

“Catch short moments of slumber. Snatches of rest. But never deep sleep. Not when others are nearby. You stop yourself from sleeping when in the wrong company.”

“No wonder you’re exhausted.”

“I’m used to it.”

“But you’re not with the Spanish now. And you had nightmares last night. Maybe _I’m_ the wrong company to help you get some rest?”

Aramis didn’t answer immediately and Porthos wished he could see his expression better by the dim light of the moon.

Finally, he said quietly, “I’m trying not to embrace my nightmares. The mere idea of them terrifies me.”

“You gotta sleep. You can’t avoid it forever. And those soldiers out there, they’ll need you tomorrow. We can’t keep the physician here all night then expect him to work through the day as well. He’s an old man.” Porthos placed the bowl of cold stew and bread he’d brought in on the floor by the blankets. “Eat. I know you avoided it all day.”

Aramis lifted himself up to sitting, carefully protecting his ribs as he did. He gave the stew a dubious look and sighed. “I didn’t avoid it. I just forgot to eat. That happens a lot. I’m not sure I can stomach anything now. I need to go back out there and help.”

“Noooo. First you’ll stay here and eat.”

Aramis frowned and glanced at him briefly, not willing to hold eye contact for too long even in the dark. 

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re starving.”

“Is that right?”

“If I say you are, you are. I can’t make you sleep but I can make sure you get fed properly. Now eat it or I’ll force it down your throat.” 

Aramis did eat. Slowly. And Porthos had the distinct impression that the slow eating had nothing to do with payback and more to do with Aramis’ poor diet and meagre appetite. When Aramis could stomach no more and shoved the bowl away, Porthos didn’t push the issue. But he also didn’t leave. Instead he crossed his arms and stared at Aramis. 

“What now?”

“You gotta sleep. I’ve been sayin’ it all along.”

“Saying it and making it happen are two completely different things. Believe me, I know from experience.”

“Lie back down.”

“You’ve admitted that you can’t make me sleep.”

“Yeah, been thinking ‘bout that.”

Porthos shed his coat and lay down on the blanket beside Aramis, setting his pistol down carefully beside him, ignoring the increasingly intense look he was getting. 

“You can’t sleep here!”

“Well I’m gonna.”

“You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you. I hate what you did and I’m angry as all hell that you lied to me. Again!”

“Fine, I’ll sleep elsewhere then.”

Porthos didn’t reply. He merely rolled onto his side and rested a giant arm over Aramis, effectively pulling him down to lying and pinning him down. 

“This is ridiculous. Porthos how is this supposed to help me sleep?”

“Dunno. Don’t care.”

“We can’t sleep like this. It’s not even winter. We only sleep close together when we’re freezing and that was in the past when we were on good speaking terms.”

“Think chilly thoughts then, on both accounts.”

“Your snoring will keep me awake.”

“You don’t sleep so that shouldn’t be a problem, should it?”

“Porthos …”

“Aramis, shut up and go to sleep before I knock you out.”

“I’m going to tell Athos how you’ve treated me.”

“Good. Who d’ya think told me all about you not sleeping for the last two years?”

“This is very uncomfortable.”

Aramis huffed and rolled over so his back was to Porthos, who allowed himself a small private smile then adjusted his hand to rest over Aramis’ chest, lightly holding his forearm.

No more was said but many hours later when the light evening chill had descended Porthos awoke to the sound of soft, steady breathing close to his ear. He was lying on his back and Aramis was curled into his shoulder, an arm and a leg sprawled across him, face so close to his neck that the breaths caressed his ear. Without thinking too much about his motives or actions, Porthos wrapped one arm up protectively around Aramis’ back and with his other hand he began to gently stroke his wrist, the soft hairs on his forearm, then up over the cotton sleeve, feeling the rise and fall contours of his muscles underneath. When he reached his face, Porthos hesitated. He really didn’t want to wake Aramis, so he settled for lightly stroking his hair, feeling the soft curls slide through his fingers as he listened for signs that the breathing had lost its rhythm.

But it didn’t. And Aramis didn’t wake up. He shifted slightly, burrowing further in to Porthos’ neck, then gave a contented sigh and went back to breathing steadily.

A few times through the rest of the night he felt Aramis move and moan in pain – the ribs having their say he guessed – but each time Porthos gathered him in his arms and whispered nonsensical words of comfort in his ear and stroked his hair, his neck, his face, kissed his forehead, sending him back to slumber before he could wake properly.

And despite getting little sleep himself, Porthos found himself smiling up into the darkness and breathing out all of the pain and grief and anger he’d kept inside for two years. For this was what he’d longed and prayed for through all the terrible lonely nights. Just to be able to hug Aramis again, to see him smile, to watch him barrel through life creating carnage and laughter in equal measures. Porthos didn’t need more than this. He had regrets, things he hadn’t done or said, and Aramis wasn’t quite yet himself but this right here was more than enough and he promised Aramis’ God that he wouldn’t ask for more if it could just stay like this forever.


	7. Best Interests

The knock on the door was hesitant but loud enough to wake both sleeping figures. 

“My apologies for waking you,” called Athos, “But Aramis is needed to help with the wounded.”

Porthos blinked and stared into a mass of curls as Aramis raised his head off his chest then looked up then down at how their bodies were wrapped around each other. 

Aramis raised himself up slightly and his dark eyes looked directly into Porthos’. He didn’t speak for a moment, just searched for a sign of something, then said simply, “Tell me we’re okay.”

“Would I let you drape yourself over me like a contented cat if we weren’t?

Porthos smiled softly but Aramis kept looking down at him, serious and earnest. 

“I’m sorry. No, don’t interrupt me. I tried to say it the other night but it didn’t come out right. I’m sorry, more sorry than you could ever know for hurting you. What I did, pretending to be dead, has haunted me every moment of every day since then. I should have told you the truth. Told you what I was going to do. At least let you know that I was alive. If you’d done the same to me and I thought you were dead I … I don’t know how I’d have coped.”

He faltered, eyes bright now with unshed tears. Porthos stared back at him and nodded, absorbing the apology. 

The knock came louder this time. “Gentlemen, please!”

“C’mon, get off me. Athos won’t knock a third time, he’ll just run in brandishing his sword.”

Porthos gently but firmly pushed Aramis away and rose to put on his doublet. Aramis followed, slower, pondering over the muted reaction to his declaration of remorse.

In himself, Aramis was feeling much better. Not a perfect night’s sleep but a thousand times better than anything he’d experienced for a very long time. And Porthos had said they were okay, he’d held him and comforted him and made Aramis feel more loved and needed than he’d felt in years. 

But something wasn’t sitting right, although - Aramis thought as he fastened his belt - it might very well just be that he had lost the ability to read any person or situation away from a battlefield, even Porthos.

“Hey, you all right?” the big man turned and looked at him with concern. “If you need more rest, just say and I’ll tell Athos you’re not up to it yet.”

“I’m fine. Really. But it’s going to take me some time to adjust to everything.”

“Mmm. Ain’t that right.”

 

\---------------------

 

Because of his tardiness in rising, Porthos was tasked with escorting the physician back to the town. Not that an attack from the Spanish was expected, but because the poor old man looked as if a puff of wind could topple him, such was his weariness. 

Two horses were waiting restlessly outside the farmhouse, saddled and ready for the short journey.

Aramis watched and listened as Porthos was given his orders, then he saw him lean in and have a low, tense discussion with Athos, who was clearly not best pleased at the outcome, as he shot Aramis an irritated look then stomped out the front door away from the grinning Porthos. 

“Why are you upsetting our illustrious leader?”

A chuckling Porthos shot Athos a satisfied glance. “He’ll get over it.”

“What have you done?”

“Just told him how things are gonna be this afternoon.”

At Aramis’ querying look, Porthos put a hand on his shoulder and pointed outside to where Athos was overseeing as a cadet led out a third horse. 

“You’re coming with me.”

“The physician hardly needs two musketeers escorting him.”

“That’s what Athos said, but I thought a trip into the town might do you some good and in the end Athos wholeheartedly agreed with me and admitted that I’m an extremely wise man.”

“I can see his expression from here and I’m fairly sure he’s picturing you strapped to a torture device, not lauding your wisdom.”

“Athos has been so busy worrying about you that he’s forgotten how to brood. The misery of this little kick to his command will cheer him up no end, just watch.”

“I really should stay here and watch over the injured.”

“They’ve been well tended to and we have enough fit men here who can do the basics should they need attention. You, on the other hand, will benefit greatly from a trip into town.”

Aramis gave Porthos a knowing look. “There wouldn’t happen to be an inn involved in this visit, would there?”

“You’ll see.” Porthos laughed and headed out the front door, making sure to give Athos a big cheery farewell wave to sour his mood even more.

 

\------------------

 

“Wait, where are we going?”

“In there.”

“It’s a church!” Aramis stopped dead and crossed his arms, staring perplexed at Porthos, then at the large stone church across the way from the inn. “I thought we were going to the inn. Why are you making me go to a church?”

Porthos pursed his lips to stop himself smiling at the strange question and regarded Aramis thoughtfully. 

“I’m not making you go anywhere. I’m going in there to say a big thank you for a few good things that have happened to me lately and you happen to be accompanying me.”

“I don’t talk to Him anymore,” said Aramis tightly. 

“Then do what I’ve always done and just sit there while someone else does the talking.” 

They both knew how many hundreds of times Porthos had patiently sat in the pews at the back of a church while Aramis conversed with God for countless hours. 

“C’mon. What’s the worst thing that could happen? You and God completely ignore each other?” 

 

\----------------------------

 

At what point Porthos had left his side, Aramis couldn’t say. He’d spent a long time with his head down, not in prayer, but in denial of his need to purge himself of his guilt.

But just as Aramis couldn’t pinpoint the moment he’d stopped speaking to God, he was surprised now to find that at some point beyond his control his thoughts turned to confession. He wanted – _needed_ – God to hear and forgive him. The guidance he’d shunned he now pleaded for, the need to cleanse his conscience and his soul was overwhelming.

Aramis could speak to God without needing to be in a church to do so, but on the battlefield, hiding, killing, sleeping rough, sleeping poorly, he’d found it easier to avoid Him with no place of worship to draw him in. 

Now, sitting in a church, the murmurs of people praying around him, the holy building warm and comforting, he could no longer deny his need to beg forgiveness and ask for help.

His thoughts poured out of him. A torrent of guilt and shame and fear and a thousand pledges and promises to atone as he begged for help and forgiveness. 

Hours later as Aramis rested his head on his clasped hands, he felt someone sit down next to him. After a moment a knee moved closer and rested against his. Then a large shoulder. Not pushing, just touching. And when Aramis sat up straight an arm was rested over the top of the pew behind him, lightly brushing against his back. 

“For someone who didn’t have a lot to say you sure seem to be yammering to Him a lot.”

“For someone who professed to want to talk to God you certainly kept it brief.”

Porthos hummed and made a face. “We don’t talk often but when we do we like to get straight to the point.”

“Which was …?”

“Told ya. Had to say thank you. You coming back to me was one prayer I definitely didn’t ever expect to be answered, so it deserved a nod of gratitude.” Porthos nudged Aramis gently with his shoulder. “What about you, huh? Finding more to chat about than you expected?”

“I ….it’s difficult. It’s been so long since I’ve been in a church and out there, doing what I did, knowing what I’d done, I didn’t feel worthy of help or forgiveness.”

“So you abandoned Him before He could abandon you?”

“Nothing ever sounds complimentary the way you say it.”

Porthos chuckled. “I know how your mind works. It might trick other people and it might trick you too occasionally, but nothing about your martyred logic gets past me.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Aramis briefly put a hand on Porthos’ knee. “I’ve missed that. You. Someone who doesn’t need me to explain things. Working my problems out before I’ve even revealed what they are.”

“We go back some.”

“I go back a long while with a lot of people but none of them can read me as you do.”

Porthos shrugged. 

“There was an old man in the Court who used to feed the birds high up on a deck he built on the roof. He rose and settled with the sun, stayed up on the roof all day. I went up there every now and then, asking him about the birds and the sky and whether rain was coming, what the big puffy gathering clouds meant. He wasn’t a man of learning, never read a book in his life, but he could answer every question I put to him and when I asked him how he knew all those things he told me he understood about the sky and the birds because he cared. If you watch something close enough and often enough you learn all its little peculiarities and habits, he said. When you have a passion, you can never spend too much time studying it.”

Realising that he’d revealed more than intended, Porthos pursed his lips then glanced at Aramis who was staring at him with an unnerving intensity.

“How ‘bout I go down and check out the inn and see if anybody in these parts knows how to play cards? You can wander down there when you’ve finished saying whatever it is you have to say.”

Aramis blinked then gave a small smile. “My conversation may take some time.”

He received a rough pat on the shoulder and a chuckle. “So might my card game.”

 

\----------------------

 

It was late in the afternoon when they returned. Porthos saw to the horses and ordered Aramis to rest. Entering the small room once more Porthos stared at Aramis and felt his heart do a backflip. Aramis wasn’t staring back at him or trying to look fetching – quite the opposite – he was lying awkwardly with his legs at a strange angle, hair mussed, one glove on, one off, fully dressed, weapons belt undone but not removed properly. But strikingly, he was fast asleep. 

All sorts of scenarios played through Porthos’ head. Things he could say, things he could do, could try to do, could ask to do. 

The old insecurities prevailed. Aramis was sleeping, finally. It wasn’t right to disturb him now, just for the sake of engaging with him. His body needed to heal and there would be time enough when he was awake. They would talk. Now that they could talk. And Aramis would smile and laugh more each day and their conversation would turn into easy banter, their awkward glances would become witty asides. Time was all that was needed now for them both to heal and mend the great bond they had shared. 

No, tomorrow would be fine. 

Porthos had barely stepped back towards the door when a man came bursting in, exclaiming his name loudly and breathlessly as he slammed the door shut behind him. 

“Porthos! Oh god I’ve missed you. I’ve been dreaming of this since you left. You don’t know how lonely I’ve been without you. When we get back to the garrison you’re going to take me so hard I won’t be able to ride for a month.”

He threw his arms around Porthos’ neck and kissed him hard on the lips. He possibly would have kissed him long as well but Porthos grabbed his shoulders and held him back. 

“Fidel…” Porthos shot a quick look back over to the corner of the room then dropped his head and took a step backwards. 

“Porthos, what’s … oh. _Oh_!”

Fidel suddenly noticed Aramis, who was slowly getting to his feet, eyes wide and locked on the two men.

“Porthos, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise anyone else was here.”

“Just go.”

“I can stay and explain.”

“No, leave. _Now!_ ”

“But ….”

“Fidel, get out!” Porthos gave him a hard stare and the man wrenched open the door and stumbled back out of the room. Taking a deep breath and still keeping his eyes averted from the far corner of the room, Porthos went to the door and drew it shut then locked it and pocketed the old key. 

He bit his lip and looked up. 

Aramis hadn’t moved, but as their eyes met Porthos could see that the scene that had just played out was being repeated for clarity over and over in Aramis’ mind. 

“Who was that?”

Aramis voice sounded thin and strained. 

Porthos tried to speak but the words dried up and he merely shrugged and crossed his arms. 

Taking a step forward, Aramis increased the severity of his stare as he tried to find the truth in Porthos’ eyes. 

“He kissed you!”

“He’s a friend,” ground out Porthos.

“Friends do _not_ kiss like that.” 

Aramis rewound the scene again, disbelieving. 

“You’re going to take me so hard I won’t be able to ride for a month?” Aramis looked as shocked as he sounded. “ _Friends_ don’t say that either. Or do that ….. _Porthos!_ ”

Rage was beginning to build and Porthos felt his breaths quicken and his chest heave as he tried to dampen his dread.

“Don’t start on me, Aramis. So help me god, don’t you dare judge me.”

“Perhaps you should explain to me exactly what it is that I shouldn’t be judging then? 

“You saw. You heard.”

The defiant tone and the brevity made Aramis’ eyes flash and he tried to mouth many words before some actually came out. 

“I knew something else was going on. You’ve said the words of forgiveness and made the gestures to welcome me but I knew you were holding back. Is this why? Because you have a ….a ….” 

Aramis filled in the last blank by gesturing his arms wide in front of Porthos, waiting for him to come up with the correct terminology. 

“…Friend,” insisted Porthos. 

“ _Bullshit_.”

“Fine, you want me to say it? He’s a friend and ….. lover.”

Aramis’ face once again portrayed complete and utter shock. 

“You, Porthos! I can’t believe you would ….”

Porthos snapped. 

“Fuck you, Aramis. You don’t know what it was like for me. I held your dead body. Had blood on my hands that I couldn’t wash off because it was the only piece of you that I had left.” 

“So you thought the only way to cheer yourself up was to take a man as a lover?”

“I was drowning without you!”

“You think you were the only one feeling alone? I was out there for two years trying to survive. Trying not to get shot, not get found out as a French spy, trying to cope by myself with nobody to help me, no friend, no comfort, no safety, nothing!”

“You deserved every bit of misery you got because you brought it all on yourself. All of this mess, all of his hurt.”

“I was trying to save my life! The Cardinal had set things in motion to set me up, to murder me, to possibly murder my friends, my son, everyone I loved.”

“We’re musketeers. We’re your friends. Why would you not tell us? If anybody could have helped you it’s us!”

“It was too much. Bigger than anything you could have dealt with.”

“And you thought your death was something that I _could_ deal with?”

Porthos shook his head and for the first time Aramis faltered in his outrage as he saw the expression and the tears forming.

“Aramis, I’d rather have faced a thousand Spanish forces, the Cardinal and the red guard all alone and unarmed than deal with your death. How could you possibly think anything would be more devastating to me than you dying?”

Aramis bit his lip. “I thought I had no choice and I knew I wasn’t leaving you alone. You had Athos and d’Artagnan and the regiment. Friends.”

“I needed more than them.”

“So you took a lover.”

“I’m talking about you, you idiot! I needed you!”

“But this man, he replaced me and makes you happy?”

Porthos growled in exasperation. “He didn't replace you. He helped me. He’s a friend.”

“No, I’m a friend. Supposedly your best friend. But you didn’t ever do anything like _that_ with me. Why would you take this man in particular as a lover?”

“I didn’t have anything to lose. Fidel came along and he was nice, he listened, he was kind and attentive and I decided what the hell? If it went wrong, it didn’t matter. I could find someone else to lose myself in, then another and another and none of it would matter because I was never going to let any of them get as close to me as you’d been so I could never be hurt again.”

“So you don’t love him.”

“Did you not just hear what I said?”

“Apparently at the moment I need everything spelled out to me very slowly and extremely clearly.”

Porthos scowled and said in very uncharacteristic precise, clipped tones, “No. I. Do. Not. Love. Him.”

“Kind of makes you a bit of a bastard to lead him on this way then don’t you think?”

“I’m not leading him on, I’m having sex with him and it’s a bit rich for you to be lecturing me on how to treat lovers well, isn’t it?”

“This thing you’re doing with that man is nothing more than you using him.”

“You of all people are really going to lecture me on the evils of leading innocents astray?”

Aramis wound himself up to launch another volley of abuse but Porthos stepped forward and cut him off.

“No, see you don’t get to be the one who’s angry here. You abandoned me. Deceived me. Made me think you were dead. Shot me. I have way more right than you to be angry.”

“But this isn’t … this isn’t you.”

“So what, me finding comfort with someone isn’t allowed because ….what, because it’s not a woman? Not someone you’ve pre-approved? Because it’s a man? Because it’s another musketeer?” Porthos bit his bottom lip and narrowed his eyes then added with a calculated sneer, “Because it’s not you?”

Athos and d’Artagnan were luckily standing clear when the locked door was kicked clean off its hinges and out into the passageway. Aramis stormed out, gloved hands clenched tightly, face grim and furious. 

D’Artagnan made to ask if he should follow but the smirk on Athos’ face made him blink in wonder at the expression. 

Smoothing out his features, Athos put an arm around d’Artagnan and led him away. “I do think,” he said somewhat gleefully, “that our dear little lost friend has finally found some focus and re-stoked the raging fire in his belly.”

 

\---------------------

 

Aramis was not to be found that night. Only d’Artagnan looked hard to find him. Porthos wasn’t speaking to anybody and Athos surmised that it was an exceedingly warm night and the moon was bright and a soldier of any note should be able to bunk down and stay hidden yet safe. 

The discovery that some blankets had gone missing from the stables clinched it for d’Artagnan and he retired to bed still with a sense of worry about the fracturing of the brotherhood. 

 

\-----------------------

 

D’Artagnan led his horse down to the stream to drink. It was a lazy morning, the sun only just starting to raise its gaze in the East. Athos had tasked him to find Aramis but as yet he’d had no luck. He wondered how Athos was faring with Porthos and whether he was proving to be just as evasive.

It was only as he went to sit down that he noticed the figure propped up against a large elm, blankets scattered carelessly around him. Aramis glanced up as d’Artagnan approached but dropped his gaze back down just as quickly.

“I thought it would be Athos charged to steer me back.”

“Only me I’m afraid,” said d’Artagnan, shuffling up against the tree and making himself comfortable, “Athos is trying to help clear out the other regiment so we can all head back to Paris.”

“He’s come a long way,” observed Aramis, “from a reluctant Captain to a strong leader of men. A lot has changed in two years. I’m not sure I can keep up with it all.”

“I’m fairly sure we’re not talking about Athos now, are we?”

“You knew of course. Both of you.”

D’Artagnan didn’t miss the hint of bitterness in his voice. 

“We did.”

“Who else knows?”

“It’s not safe for that sort of thing to be common knowledge, so hopefully as few other people as possible.”

“Treville?”

“I don’t know. He might. He is very good at keeping secrets.”

Aramis let out a sour laugh and threw a stick into the water, watching the ripples break up the surface. They sat in silence, watching until the water reclaimed its even surface.

“I’m waiting for you to tell me that I should be more understanding. That I should support Porthos and reign in my judgements.”

“I can’t tell you how you should feel.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Aramis, you need time to recover from your ordeal. And whatever else has changed in the garrison, with your friends, will take time to adjust to as well.”

“Ironic, isn’t it. I always encouraged Porthos to take more lovers.”

“None of them men, I suspect.”

That made Aramis smile. “Very true.” He hesitated then asked quietly, “Is he happy?”

“Porthos? Right now, no matter how angry he seems with you I firmly believe he’s overcome with joy.”

“You know what I mean. Is he happy with … his lover?”

“I get the impression that he has found some comfort with Fidel, yes.”

“Fidel.” 

Aramis repeated the name and threw another stick into the water. 

“It’s a stupid name.”

D’Artagnan chuckled. “I know you’re feeling better because you’re being openly petulant now.”

Aramis smiled wanly and raised his face to the sky, sighing.

“It’s ridiculous. I have no right to be jealous. No reason to be jealous. Porthos and I aren’t lovers. This man ... Fidel ... has helped Porthos and I should be thankful for it. I guess ....” He hesitated, trying to find the right words, “....I guess I just panicked and now I don’t know where I fit in. Will I fit in? Will Porthos even need me any more now he has someone else?”

“It’s not like that. Their relationship. We barely see Fidel apart from when he’s searching for Porthos. They go drinking occasionally and they spend time ... at night ... but Aramis he’s not you, nor could he ever replace you in Porthos’ life.” 

D’Artagnan put a hand on Aramis’ shoulder. “Athos and I love Porthos like a brother. You know how close we are. But after you died we couldn’t fill that gap in his heart. He was lost without you, Aramis. So if he found a way to be consoled and find some peace we were hardly going to object.”

“And if I were a better man I should not object either.”

That young musketeer smiled his brightest smile and leaned in close. 

“My friend, you and Porthos are the best of the best. And now that you’re back I know that whatever you decide to do and however you decide to go forward, you will only act with Porthos’ best interests in mind.”

Aramis sighed and shut his eyes tight. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

 

\----------------------

 

Aramis knocked on the door, immediately feeling stupid for acting so formal. The door had been more or less fixed back on its hinges but was not sitting correctly within the door frame, so it stood slightly ajar and on lack of a response he pulled it open slightly. 

Porthos was sitting in a chair, silent, tense and frowning, but he glanced up and nodded at Aramis, waited until he sat down on the chair facing him then dropped his gaze down to the floor. 

“Porthos ….”

“No, I gotta say my bit first. All the way along since I first saw you alive I’ve known this moment would come. When you’d find out what I’ve been doing, who I’ve been with, and I knew it would turn from anger at you to anger at me. Start with everything being your fault and end up with me wearing the blame and feeling guilty.”

“No, Porthos, that’s not ….” Began Aramis but Porthos cut him off again and looked him straight in the eye, his gaze unwavering. 

“You’re not the only one who needs to be close to someone in order to feel safe, to sleep, to chase away the nightmares. I watched you dying every time I went to sleep. Imagined your face being blown away. Cried every night as you died alone without me there to tell you it would all be okay.”

He ran his fingers through his hair then clasped his hands together tightly.

“Fidel found me one night, drinking by myself, self-destructive and lonely. He kept me company – not like that – but he sat with me and tried to make me smile and told me outrageous tales and he made sure I got home in one piece. Then a couple of nights later he found me again. It became a regular occurrence until one day when he told me a funny story I found myself smiling. And then late one evening I began to tell him some of my stories. I suddenly found myself making sure that he got home safe. Eventually, one night, he asked me in and invited me to stay and I couldn’t bear to go back out that door and be alone any more.”

Aramis dropped his eyes and digested that for a long while until Porthos reached out and held his hand, squeezing it gently. 

“Hey, don’t disappear on me now. I don’t wanna talk about this but we have to. Last night you wanted to know about my relationship with Fidel so now I’m telling you the truth, minus the anger. I didn’t do it to hurt you, or to hurt him or to do anything more than just stop feeling so bloody lonely, to take away some of the pain.”

“I know. And I believe you.” Aramis kept his gaze down and gripped Porthos’ hand between both of his own, bringing Porthos’ fingers briefly to his lips and smiling at the resulting rumble he heard in the back of Porthos’ throat. “I don’t have the right to make demands of you. There are other people in your life now who should take priority, and if you need to be close with someone else, with that man, or other men, or anyone at all I’ll not try to get in your way, but … but if you could still find the occasional moment to spend with me ….”

“Fucking hell, you test my patience! Did you not hear anything I’ve said to you these past few days? I got you back! You’re here with me and my heart feels like it’s gonna burst through my chest I’m so happy. I don’t wanna spend a second apart from you. I’m gonna follow you everywhere, day and night. I’m never gonna leave your side. If you go for a shit in the woods you better watch out because I’ll be there! 

Aramis burst out laughing, joyous and clear. It was only cut short when both men stopped to marvel at the sound. 

“And there you are,” murmured Porthos with wonder in his voice, beaming and looking at Aramis like he’d just discovered the sun. 

“Yes, here I am,” chuckled Aramis. He shook his head and frowned. “It feels strange, to laugh. To do anything that might make people stop and look.”

“You couldn’t risk attracting attention.”

“It wasn’t just that. Not always. If I found myself smiling or sharing a joke or even drinking in company it felt like I had no right to do it. To be content or happy after what I’d done to you just didn’t seem right.” 

He sighed and ran a hand slowly through his hair, pushing back the curls before letting them spring and settle forward in a haphazard way. 

“I said I was sorry yesterday morning but you didn’t really accept it.” 

“I know. This other thing has been on my mind every moment since you came back. It’s been sittin’ in the pit of my stomach, makin’ me feel ill. I couldn’t speak about forgiveness with you because I knew I’d need some forgiving myself.”

“But you knew me. You knew I needed God to forgive me. You knew He’d been missing from my soul, absent as I tried to heal. But Porthos you must also know that I need your forgiveness too. More than anything I need you to know how deeply ashamed I am for hurting you. Of all the people I’ve ever met in my life you are the most generous, trusting, gentle soul, my closest brother and if you can’t forgive me then I am truly lost.”

“Of course I forgive you.”

“Despite everything I’ve done.”

“None of us are free from wrongdoings. We all need to be pardoned for our sins. Myself included.”

“But you’ve done nothing wrong. I have no reason to blame you for anything.”

“Not you.”

“Oh, _him_. ”

“Yeah, him. Fidel doesn’t deserve to get that sort of reception from me. Shoved out the door like he was an embarrassment.”

“He’ll forgive you.”

“I don’t treat him well.”

“I can’t possibly believe that for one second. You, my friend, treat everyone in an exemplary manner.”

“Ohh, that’s not true at all when it comes to Fidel.”

Aramis shifted uncomfortably. 

“I’m not sure I need to hear details.”

“Not all of them, no, but the mere fact I’m sittin’ here with a man Fidel has barely even met asking you if I should end the relationship with him doesn’t really indicate that he’s my first priority, does it?”

Aramis frowned, confused. “Wait. Is that what you’re doing? Asking me if you should stop seeing him?”

“I guess it’s kinda something I want your opinion on.”

“Porthos, you said yourself, I don’t know him. Nor do I know the two of you … together. You might be a perfect pairing.”

Even as he said it Aramis felt himself scowling and Porthos caught the look and sucked back a grin. 

“You can tell me.”

“No, I won’t. It’s none of my business and I’m responsible for setting off the chain of events that led to him being in your life in the first place, so I refuse to make any comment.” Aramis sat back, arms crossed and watched Porthos, who was hunched forward, playing with the cuff of his jacket, momentarily lost in his thoughts.

Porthos suddenly smiled and said, “I missed this. Us, chatting. Even when we’re disagreeing it’s good. As long as you’re here, that’s all that matters.”

Aramis smiled fondly at the words. “I’ve missed it too. I’d have given anything to be able to sit and talk to you. Although my heart has been so heavy with guilt that I’m not sure I could have provided you with any cheer.” 

“I really hope this martyr phase isn’t going to last long. I like my Aramis positive and outgoing you know.”

“I do know. Really, I do. And I agree wholeheartedly.” 

“We’ll all help you through it.”

Aramis nodded and gripped Porthos’ hand tighter. “I can’t do it without you.”

“And you gotta promise me that when we leave here, we leave all of this behind. The fighting, the mistrust, the guilt, the blame, the anger. This time when we go back to Paris, to the garrison, it’s gonna be a fresh start for all of us.”

“I’m not sure I can leave all the nightmares behind. At least not yet. I fear they will follow me wherever I go.”

“That’s okay. I’ll be there to swat them away. I’m not afraid of anything your ridiculous mind can conjure up.”

“The regiment will not be instantly amenable to my return.”

“They’ll come around. We’ll stick by you and they’ll discover where your loyalties really lie.”

Aramis sighed. 

“Good. And I know just how we’re gonna do it.” Porthos clapped a hand down on Aramis’ knee and grinned broadly. “We’re gonna get you back to Paris and head straight to the tavern. You’ll be so phenomenal at shooting that while I take care of the melons we’ll have you shooting peas off the innkeeper’s ear. The whole of Paris will hear about it and applaud. And we’ll do it while completely full of ale. Those cadets won’t forget your name after I’ve shown them what you can do and who you really are.”

“Porthos?” Aramis’ mood changed and he averted his eyes and fiddled with a small tear on the knees of his trousers.

“What? Is it too soon? Your stomach’s probably still quite delicate. Forget the ale. It’s just as impressive sober. If we arrange with the innkeeper to …..”

“Porthos,” Aramis took a deep breath. I do believe that you need to work things out with … with your … with Fidel.”

“I will. It’ll be fine.”

“Even so, you need to do it now, not later.”

“Now meaning ….”

“Before we head back to Paris.”

“And when you say work things out, you mean ….?”

Aramis shrugged and studied the tear with the utmost concentration, making Porthos raise an eyebrow.

“Thought you were happy for me to continue doin’ what I’m doin’ with him? Weren’t gonna offer an opinion?”

“It seemed perfectly acceptable when I said it.”

“And now?”

“And now, suddenly … it seems less acceptable.”

“So, what, you want me to break up with Fidel? Stop taking him as my lover?”

Aramis nodded then buried his head in his hands, so he missed Porthos' victorious smile. 

“Is there a reason why?”

Aramis groaned from behind his palms. “Probably, but I’m not inclined to investigate what it might be so let’s settle for me being unwell and needy and possibly harbouring a terrible fever that makes me say things out of turn.”

Porthos knew there were no signs of fever at all and grinned broadly until he thought about the job he’d been tasked with. He stared at Aramis, his features sobered, and said quietly, “Mis, he’s not a bad man you know. He’s had lovers before. Soldiers. He just made the mistake of wanting me and he was what I needed at the time. And now that you’re back he’s barely been in my thoughts and that’s not fair on him. It’s not his fault.”

“Of that I have no doubt. I hold no ill will toward him. He helped you and I should be grateful. And I’m learning to accept that bad things sometimes happen to good men when events spiral completely out of their control.”

“That’s an exceptionally good thing for you to realise.”

Aramis lowered his hands to his lap and made a face. “I’m trying.”

“I’ll go find him. Won’t be pleasant but if you refuse to share me with anyone else I have no choice.” 

“Oh that’s not fair, I ….”

Aramis caught sight of the delighted look on Porthos’ grinning face and punched him lightly on the chest. 

“Did your mother not warn you that you should never tease wounded animals?

“Teasing is exactly what you need.” He ruffled Aramis’ hair fondly then sighed and raised his eyes skyward. “Right, I’ll go do this. Tell him I don’t have the heart to continue, which is harsh, but true.” He hesitated and leaned forward, putting both his hands on Aramis’ arms. “But first I need something from you.”

“Anything.”

Porthos stood and drew Aramis up in front of him. He fidgeted and shuffled his feet and shifted his weight and screwed up his face as if about to ask for something impossible. 

“Porthos, what is it you need from me? Whatever it is I’ll give it to you, you know I will.”

“Aramis ….I want …. I _need_ …. Can we please hug now? It’s been so long. I’ve dreamt of it, yearned for it every night and …”

Aramis launched himself at Porthos and knocked the wind out of him, such was the force of his embrace, and when Porthos wrapped his enormous arms around Aramis they both laughed as his backbone cracked with the pressure.

“You’re here, you’re here, you’re here, you’re really here.”

“I am,” whispered Aramis into Porthos’ ear, “And I’ll stay so close to you that before long you’ll be begging me to leave.”

“Never. That will never, _ever_ happen.”


	8. Rats In The Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Chapter 8 was going to be the final chapter but it's ended up being enormous so I've split it into two. The final chapter 9 is written but needs a lot of editing so I'm hoping to have it up later today. I've struggled for time and have had trouble setting the right mood for this last part so it's been re-written a number of times. Thanks so much for your patience!_

Aramis felt nauseous. His head swam with a fuzzy disconcertion and the horses ramming their hooves into the dirt as they plodded along jarred something that ran from the base of his spine to the jellied mush of a brain that sloshed about oh so noisily inside his skull.

He pulled his hat down so low that he had no chance of seeing the achingly bright sun or the path ahead, hoping instead that his horse with the extraordinarily noisy gait would at least have the good equine sense to know the way back to Paris.

Aramis gave it a quick congratulatory pat of confidence on the neck then regretted the action as his stomach lurched.

Of course his wasn’t the only horse, nor was he the only rider. He lifted his head and his hat and glanced sideways. Athos’ face was hidden even further under his hat than Aramis’ own. His back, as always, remained upright and rigid, he made no attempt to speak, which wasn’t unusual, and the only sign of possible discomfort was the way he clutched the reins, white-knuckled and indicating deep concentration. As Aramis swayed forward and gripped his horse’s mane tight he deemed Athos’ ability to retain his composure on a horse while severely hungover to be one of life’s great achievements.

“Hold up, he’s down again!”

Aramis didn’t look around this time. The first time d’Artagnan had stopped to relieve his stomach of last night’s contents he had dismounted and tried to help. That had not aided his own cause at all and now, after another four stops for the same purpose he didn’t even bother to ask after the young man’s health.

A deep chuckle rumbled behind him, the abnormally low tone of huskiness the only indication that Porthos too had imbibed long and heartily into the night.

“How on earth did they let you become a musketeer when you’re in possession of such a delicate constitution?” 

Aramis heard a horse shift accommodatingly behind him then d’Artagnan moaned, retched, cursed at Porthos for being unsympathetic, then retched and moaned again some more.

The delighted chuckle rang out again then, “Oi, ‘Mis, you hangin’ in there?”

Pulling his hat back down further, Aramis raised his hand and made a vague gesture that restarted the chuckling then Athos’ horse began to plod forward and the long, slow, nauseous journey began again. 

“If you hadn’t overplayed your hand as Captain and sent the regiment ahead to Paris without us none of this would be happening,” pointed out Porthos. 

“No, if he hadn’t then promised that we would all meet them back at the garrison tomorrow morning this wouldn’t be happening,” moaned d’Artagnan.

"Personally, I think the enormous volume of wine we imbibed may have played a small part in our collective discomfort," muttered Aramis. 

That part of the night where orders and promises were made remained fuzzy to Aramis. All the organization, the preparation, troops getting ready to ride, the ammunition being taken out and loaded, all the logistical planning somehow eluded him or remained locked in the fuzzy part of his brain which refused to come out so far. 

He remembered having the confrontation with Porthos. Hugging Porthos. That part he couldn’t forget although he was unable remember quite how long he’d hugged Porthos for. It must have only been minutes, or seconds, but it seemed like forever. Finally, _finally_ he knew it would all be okay as he’d shamelessly wrapped himself around those enormous shoulders. It was hard not to be overcome as the big man pulled him close with those giant paws and breathed out a deep contented moan of relief into his hair. 

And before either of them drew back another pair of hands – d’Artagnan’s – wound around them then another pair tried to envelop them all and he knew it was Athos joining them, kissing into his neck and his hair with rare, cherished affection. 

Many tears were shed, garbled vows were made and remade, murmured promises were whispered into Aramis’ ear and all the time he clung to Porthos and let all the fears and uncertainties drain through his trembling arms.

When Porthos finally pulled away his cheeks were damp and his eyes were filled with emotion, but that beaming smile still shone through. They had all made to speak but Porthos let go of Aramis, held up his hands and shook his head, the smile temporarily disappearing as he took a deep breath. 

“Save it for later. There’s somethin’ I gotta do now before I do anything else.” 

Aramis recalled a large hand squeezing his shoulder on the way past, then more hugs between the remaining three before Athos announced that a celebratory drink was in order and he led Aramis out into the main room and settled him down in a comfortable chair and began barking orders. 

It was the next bit that remained out of focus. Aramis suspected he’d either dozed off or just tuned out of the bustle around him. All he remembered was suddenly having a large glass of wine placed gently into his hand and realising that the large farmhouse was now empty apart from he and his two friends.

When Porthos returned three sets of curious eyes watched him enter and walk across the room. They could all see him debating how to summarise his encounter with Fidel but he paused, shook his head to deter both questions and expectations of answers then gave Aramis’ hair a ruffle, grabbed the cup of wine held out to him by Athos then crossed back to sit down wearily on the lounge beside Aramis.

Looking back, it was hard to know who to blame. Athos was responsible for procuring the alcohol. Porthos had apparently only found Spanish wine among the stash downstairs and refused to allow it to be imbibed by anyone, but somehow, somewhere in the deep dark depths of the cellar after the soldiers had moved out the weaponry Athos had managed to discover a dozen crates of high quality French wine. 

Having cleared out most of the regiment to escort the weaponry and arms back to Paris, d’Artagnan and Athos dragged the seats closer to the hearth in preparation for a cooler night and friends in need of some extra warmth, comfort and reconnection.

D’Artagnan seemed delirious with happiness at the belated reunion celebration. Even Athos seemed awkwardly cheery. And Porthos, well, he drank, he was reflective, he kept his usual watchful eye as Athos started to swig the wine with serious intent, and was hovering and protective as d'Artagnan passed over the threshold from tipsy to rolling drunk.

But no matter how attentive Porthos was to his other two friends, his gaze kept gravitating back to Aramis and each time it settled on him Porthos beamed and shook his head slowly as if he couldn’t believe his eyes or his luck.

Aramis knew exactly how often Porthos looked at him because he spent a large chunk of the evening staring right back at him. He was fairly sure he’d hidden that fact well. At first. A sideways glance, censorious when Porthos seemed too pleased, then as the night wore on and the wine warmed his bones he became more blatant, sitting - well, _sliding_ \- on to the floor then turning, resting his head on the side of the sofa, staring up at Porthos with unabashed tipsy adoration.

“What are you looking at?” Laughed Porthos, nudging Aramis’ shoulder with his boot.

Aramis just chuckled and tipped back another glass of wine then held it out to be refilled.

“You know you’re a grub,” declared Porthos, “One who’s gonna have an almighty headache tomorrow if you don’t ease up.

Shrugging one shoulder, Aramis merely jiggled his glass around alarmingly until Porthos conceded and filled it once more.

D’Artagnan crawled across the floor and when he reached Aramis he kept on crawling, until he collapsed on him in a drunken, loving hug, telling him over and over again how much he had been missed.

The freshly poured wine toppled carelessly all over the floor and Porthos’ tuts as he rescued the empty glass before it got smashed turned into deep rumbling chuckles as he took in his sprawling friends. By the time d’Artagnan gleefully spotted Athos slumping down in his chair beside the fire attempting to be invisible and he and Aramis set off on a crawling mission to target him with their drunken affections Porthos’ booming belly laugh was echoing around the room.

Athos ability to look both nobly composed and highly alarmed at the same time was admirable and he barely moved a muscle as drunken arms and legs swamped him.

Porthos watched, laughing, not joining in but encouraging them on, until yelps and hisses of pain from within the pile of bodies drew his attention.

“Hey, hey, hey! Aramis is hurt! Stop it!”

Nobody made any attempt to stop anything so Porthos waded into the melee, extracted some limbs that looked like they belonged to Aramis then hauled him up and out of the writhing tangle with a grunt and a reprimand.

Everybody who wasn’t Porthos protested loudly as he carried, pushed and manhandled a wriggling, giggling, but clearly sore Aramis across the room.

“Ow! Get off me! _Owwwwww!_ ”

“I’m going nowhere. You’re hurt, aren’t ya?”

Porthos turned Aramis around so they were facing each other and held him firmly by the shoulders. He stared at him for a long moment, replaying their day for possible causes. Then his expression grew grim. “It was me. I hurt you earlier today when he hugged, didn’t I?” Aramis pouted but didn’t answer, so Porthos poked a finger at his chest making Aramis hiss with pain and swat his hand away. “I hurt you and now you’ve gone and made your ribs worse by wrestling poor Athos.”

“I’m perfectly fine I’ll have you know,” hiccupped Aramis, leaning in and wincing as he wound his arms around Porthos’ neck and tipped his face up with what he hoped was an expression of extreme endearment. 

“Oh no you don’t,” warned Porthos, humming a reproach as he saw the look in Aramis’ eyes. “I’m not so drunk as to let myself be taken advantage of by a shameless hussy.”

Aramis recalled giggling at the term and repeating _‘shameless hussy’_ over a few times to amuse himself. He remembered putting on his best pout as Porthos held him by the shoulders – stopping him from swaying alarmingly. 

“Do you want to kiss me?” he’d whispered, trying to creep his fingers up the broad chest until bigger, stronger fingers held them still. 

“’Mis, you’d never ask that if you were completely sober and I’d only ever answer if I was completely drunk.”

Aramis remembered being distracted long enough by that for Porthos to be able to lie him down on the couch and rescue Athos from his other affectionate attacker, who was dumped in a boneless heap beside him, giggling and chiding Porthos for killing his fun. 

Now, a low chuckle behind him made him return his thoughts to the present, turn his head to the side and raise an eyebrow. 

“All coming back to you, is it?” Porthos raised his own eyebrow and laughed as their eyes met briefly, enjoying the discomfort of his friends immensely. 

Slowing his horse until Porthos could ride alongside, Aramis gave him his most pained look.

“Your complete lack of sympathy is most unbecoming.”

“Couldn’t keep a straight face if I tried. The entertainment you lot provided last night will keep me smiling for years.”

“I feel as if I’ve wrestled a thousand bears.”

“Well, I suppose I _am_ partly responsible for your sore ribs. At least this latest injury to them.”

“It was worth it.” At Porthos’ sideways look Aramis added, “ _Nothing_ was going to get in the way of that hug. Not even ribs re-breaking.”

Porthos winced then huffed. “You’re exaggerating as usual. I bruised them at worst. Always were a martyr, weren’t ya?”

Aramis didn’t reply. He merely nodded ahead to where Athos had stopped and dismounted his horse. They all halted and watched as he began to walk rigidly across the grass towards the bank of trees. Their supposition that it was a call of nature was corrected when Athos suddenly and violently bent double and expelled the contents of his stomach at his feet. 

In all their years of drinking together, none of them had ever seen that consequence from Athos’s vast intake of alcohol. 

D’Artagnan hooted with laughter, Porthos’ barked out a note of surprise then joined in with a hearty boom of mirth, and Aramis held his delicate ribs and tried not to hurt anything as he chuckled with amusement. 

Athos’ stomach was vengeful and provided them with hilarity for a good five minutes until finally Porthos took pity, dismounted and went to provide comfort in between throaty bursts of laughter. 

“You will all pay dearly,” was all Athos managed, his face pale and his hands shaky as a chortling Porthos helped him back on his horse. 

“Whatever price we will pay it will be worth it,” grinned d’Artagnan, but he added with a sober note, “I do think however that we all need to find shelter and rest sooner rather than later. I don’t fancy many more hours of this.”

“Amen,” groaned Aramis. 

 

\-----------------

 

The village wasn’t really a village. Merely a collection of run-down buildings clumped together in a disorderly fashion. And the inn wasn’t really an inn. Just the one place they knew from experience that let out rooms to travellers and provided cheap wine on demand without providing an actual tavern to sit in. 

“No rooms tonight. Had a large crowd from Paris come in not an hour ago. No beds left at all.”

They all visibly flagged but Porthos persisted.

“We’re King’s Musketeers. We’ve had a hard campaign as you can see and we need somewhere to rest. You must have some space left, surely?”

As the gentleman surveyed the sorry state of them all Aramis tried not to smile as he saw the man imagining an almighty battle with weapons, not an adversary that lived in the bottom of a French wine bottle. 

“I’ll see what I got in the stables.”

D’Artagnan groaned. 

“Stables? Sleeping on straw? Has my life as a musketeer come to this?”

“I’d sleep on a bed of dead Spanish and it would still feel better than swaying around on a horse with a hangover.”

They were the first words Athos had uttered since his unfortunate incident and it made them all start chuckling again. 

“Ain’t the Spanish ya need to worry about,” said the gentleman. “It’s the rats. Bigger’n a cat some of ‘em an’ they don’t like their stables bein’ disturbed."

As it turned out the stables were the best-built part of the whole establishment. 

“I can see why the rats are so protective of their home,” observed Athos. 

They all picked a stall and threw down fresh straw and blankets and after tending to the horses and eating what they could stomach they all retired even though the sun was barely down. 

“At least I had no nightmares last night,” said Aramis, “maybe the wine chased them away.”

He caught the tail end of a look from Porthos. 

“What?”

“You might not remember having the nightmares but they didn’t abandon you.”

Aramis frowned and wracked his brain. The last thing he recalled was lying on the couch with d’Artagnan deposited beside him, giggling and boneless. Then he woke up on the floor with an almighty hangover. 

He leaned on the stable post and thought hard. Had he yelled out? That seemed unlikely. 

But now he remembered something – shaking, thrashing, fighting someone – no, someone fighting him, holding him still, grabbing his wrists and telling him to be calm. A hand soothing his hair, holding his face against their chest. A familiar _shhhooshing_ over and over again, close to his ear, comforting, urging stillness, helping him find peace. 

When Porthos looked up from creating his bed Aramis was staring at him. The big man shrugged and folded his arms as he stood. 

“I’ll be there whenever you need me,” he said simply, then turned Aramis around and guided him to his stall where his bed was waiting. “Now go to sleep. You look like hell.”

 

\------------------------------

 

Aramis was kneeling in the mud. It wasn’t possible to block out the noise of the battle, of the Spanish victors. They roared their triumph, their hounds bayed and snapped slobber-covered fangs at his face and he couldn’t fend them off because his hands were tied. He was caught, alone and afraid, a French imposter now thoroughly at their mercy. Someone grabbed a handful of his hair and drew his head back, exposing his throat. Aramis tried to speak, to beg for mercy, to plead to his God for forgiveness but his throat was constricted, he couldn’t speak or pray or even take a breath. A hand pushed forward on his back. This was it. The moment a cold blade would slice through his neck, ending what turned out to be a miserable, friendless last part of his life. He wondered if anybody would know his fate? Would anybody even care? How could he ever let his friends understand how sorry he was and how dearly he had paid for all his follies?

The hand in his hair moved down to cup the back of his neck. Another hand rested on his back then moved around in slow circles over the cotton shirt. Aramis tried to tell them to get on with it and end it all now, but he was paralysed with fear. 

“ _Shhhhh_. I got ya. God, you’re covered in sweat. You’ll catch a chill if you keep that wet shirt on.”

The familiar French tones confused him. As did the words. As did the removal of his shirt. And as the shirt sleeve slid over his wrists he realised that his hands weren’t tied after all. 

“Come ‘ere.” 

And as the hand on his neck guided him forward and he buried his face into a familiar chest Aramis finally gasped and shuddered as he shifted out of the nightmare and into reality. 

“Breathe, ‘Mis. It’s okay.”

The paralysis of fear that had frozen his body slowly began to unravel. Aramis took deep shuddering breaths and curled into Porthos, feeling stupid and weak, but most of all safe and loved. 

Porthos began to rake his fingers gently through Aramis’ sweat-damp hair and the fingers on his back splayed out and moved all over his skin, drying and warming him in equal measures. 

“Your nightmare. Tell me about it,” he urged quietly. 

That made Aramis shiver, but he wanted, needed to share. 

“It’s not the same scenario every time. But I’m always caught, alone, about to be killed and with no way of saying how sorry I am, no way to explain my story, nobody near to care about my death and all of it completely my fault. My God is gone, my closest friends are gone, my life is nothing and I die, worthless and un-noted.”

Porthos drew Aramis back so he could look at him in the dim light. 

“Listen to me. These nightmares will lessen, then they’ll stop and then one day you’ll be able to laugh and label them as outrageous nonsense.” He pressed a long kiss to Aramis’ forehead then said fiercely, “You are never, ever going to die worthless and un-noted, ya hear me?” 

Even if Porthos had not said the words, Aramis could still feel the depth of passion in the way he was held and how giant hands that could snap his neck without a second thought cradled him so gently and possessively. He knew he would never die unloved.

It was so simple. Aramis stretched up and kissed Porthos softly on the lips. 

He was neither stopped nor encouraged for that first kiss, but as he slowly pulled back Porthos’s lips followed his and Aramis let them catch him in a second, firmer, more exploratory kiss. The hands on his back became less gentle and did their own exploring, skating over his skin, pulling him close so their bodies settled together in an intimate embrace. He moaned and ran his fingers down Porthos’ muscled back, eliciting an encouraging noise as they pressed and rocked closer. 

A loud cough made them freeze mid-kiss. 

A second cough, further away, made them pull apart. 

“Those rats do seem to be exceedingly noisy tonight, don’t they d’Artagnan?”

There was a muffled giggle then, “Almost as if they forgot we were here. Mind you, if they keep on doing what they’re doing I should deem it necessary to stab each of them numerous times with a very sharp pitchfork.”

“A marvellous idea,” agreed Athos. “Let’s just hope the rats understand that they have to share their quarters with us tonight so if they can exercise some restraint in their nocturnal activities it would be very much appreciated.”

As Aramis bit back a nervous giggle he saw Porthos close his eyes tight in embarrassment then stare at him wide-eyed, shaking his head. He gestured at the stall next door and made to get up and leave, but Aramis held his hand and silently urged him to stay. 

Porthos sighed then reached over Aramis and dragged some extra blankets over them, making a point of tucking one between them so their bodies weren’t touching. He kissed the hand that held his then lay the other one protectively over Aramis’ waist and mouthed the word ‘sleep’ at him. 

Despite that order neither of them did so for a very long time. They didn’t snuggle closer, nor did they kiss again, but their hands remained entwined and they stared and studied each other long into the night before a cloud covered the bright moon and finally sent them both into darkness and slumber.


	9. Fussin' & Grumblin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter plus I posted up the previous chapter today as well. Enjoy!

When Aramis awoke his first thought was to check that he was really not on a Spanish battlefield. His next thought was to marvel at how beautiful life felt without a hangover. And his third thought… 

“Are you with us Aramis?” he heard Athos call. “The sun has long been up and there will be little breakfast left if you don’t rise soon.”

Aramis scrambled about the straw to find his shirt, which had hopefully dried during the night. 

“Where is it, where is it, where ….”

A draping wall of warm cotton him in the face and when he lowered it Porthos was standing before him with a grin. 

“Dunno how you managed for two years without me there to help you. Who else would let you sleep like a newborn while they ran around setting your damp shirt to dry in the sun, making you breakfast, readying your horse ….”

“He really should pay you for all you do for him,” chimed in d’Artagnan from outside the stables. 

“…. Cleaning lakes of vomit off a whelp’s shoes!” Porthos called loudly over his shoulder, eliciting a groan from outside before he turned back and winked at Aramis. 

“We need to move, gentlemen,” announced Athos, impatient and already preparing to mount his horse. 

Aramis scooped up his blanket and made to leave then turned to see Porthos leaning against the stable door, studying him. 

“We kissed,” stated Porthos.

“We did,” Aramis agreed. 

“Is this one of those things we have to talk about later?”

“When we’re back in Paris, yes.”

Ignoring another prompt from outside and unable to keep the hope from his voice, Porthos added, “And might it be something we might do again, later? Kiss?”

Aramis tried not to smile. “Very, very possibly, yes.”

Porthos nodded, pleased. “Good. That’ll give me lots of things to think about on the ride back to the garrison.”

 

\--------------

 

So many things seemed to have been resolved on this venture, so it was an unpleasant surprise for Aramis to find himself tensing up as they neared Paris. 

By the time they reached the garrison he was a bundle of nerves.

Porthos was alert to his mood change, of course and came to him as they led their horses to the stables. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“It’s …. everything.”

“’S’okay, look we don’t have to kiss if you don’t wanna. If it’s too much pressure ….”

“No, no, it’s not that, but …..” Aramis scuffed his boots on the stable floor and fidgeted, uncommonly ill at ease. 

“We did kiss, Porthos.”

“I know that. We did.”

“And I’m selfish.”

“Oh, I'm well aware of that too.”

Aramis huffed in frustration at his unusual inability to find the right words.

“I’m …. not yet myself. I thought I was. I thought all I needed was for you to forgive me. For my brothers to accept me back. But I’m a musketeer and as I rode into Paris I didn’t feel like one. The looks some of them gave me when I rode into the garrison …. I’m not used to feeling like an outsider. Not here. Being at the garrison and feeling as if I’m an interloper just heightens the unsettling feeling that I’m not quite right and that I don’t yet fit.”

“They’ll accept you soon enough. They can’t stop talking about your shooting feats.”

“Which is one of my qualities but not the whole sum of me as a musketeer or as a man. I need to feel accomplished again, Porthos. Less like a Spanish spy. I don’t even have a room of my own yet.”

“You can share mine,” Porthos offered, before adding quickly, “If you want that is. I mean, we don’t have to share a bed. I can sleep elsewhere. There’s no pressure for you to…”

“Porthos,” chided Aramis. “Don’t you tie yourself in knots too. The problems with my return are mine, not yours. And I do know I can stay with you. As I said, I’m selfish. Because I do want to stay with you. Whatever else I can deal with alone, I know I can’t fight off the nightmares by myself. Not yet. So I need you near me, I need your support and comfort and you are and will always be my best friend ….”

“But …”

“But ….. until the garrison feels like home again, until I know I will be accepted back here by everybody, until I feel as if I’m worthy of being here, I don’t think we should ….you know. It might complicate things even more.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I ask so much of you yet deny you anything more.”

“You’re back. That’s all that matters. It was only a kiss.”

Aramis gave Porthos a look, and he had the good grace to shrug and add, “Okay, a kiss I’ve thought about all the way back to Paris, but it doesn’t change anything.”

“You should be kissing Fidel. I made you alienate him for my own selfish causes.”

“Nah, I was using him. It was all wrong.”

“More wrong than the way I’m using you?

“Aramis, I’ll say this a million times until you finally listen to me – you’re back. That’s all I care about. Now let’s get you set up back here. My room’s big enough to put a second bed in there. We’ll take it easy and I’ll personally clout anybody who questions your right to be a musketeer.”

“I don’t remember that being part of the agreement.”

“Yeah, well, letting me clout people who disrespect you is the price you pay for taking up space in my quarters.

 

\------------------------------------

 

Treville was clearly in on whatever conspiracy Aramis felt was being played out behind his back. In theory the Minister was above such blatantly organised skirmishes. And usually that was the case. But sometimes ….. 

A feeling of disquiet accompanied Aramis as he organised and rearranged the maps in Treville’s bureau. Disquiet was the only thing that accompanied him, which was disconcerting in itself. He’d not spent a single moment alone since his return and to now have all his friends called away while he alone remained to _‘help with the paperwork’_ seemed a tad off to put it mildly. Doing something as menial as paperwork had been something he’d accepted in his first week back at the garrison, injured and keeping him out of the firing line of those perhaps not quite accepting of his place amongst the regiment. But it had been over three months now since his return and he was feeling quite himself again. Hence the irritation. 

He had regained most of his weight, he was feeling better, more confident about his position, and the flashes of pain, of loss and abandonment, grew less affecting with each passing day. Treville’s excuse was that he’d received quite a solid kick in training which had once again rattled his ribs. It had taken his breath away and it hurt but they weren’t broken again and he had objected strongly to the bandages the medic applied. Now, he objected even more strongly to this punishment of not being allowed to go on patrol with his friends. 

The garrison had accepted him back and even those who had initially voiced animosity were silenced when they saw how solidly The Inseparables had reformed.

He slept in Porthos’ room. Not always in the same bed but if they did Porthos made sure he was risen and out before Aramis properly woke. Whether it was to avoid awkwardness in waking together or avoiding slipping from their agreement due to early morning entanglement, Aramis wasn’t sure. But their pact had held and now it was hard to know if or when or how to break it. That was the other reason he hated being put on light duties like this. Too much time to think about things.

Yes, he was definitely feeling more like himself again, which was probably why his instincts were on full alert and he didn’t miss Athos’ return when he limped through the garrison entrance. 

“Who did this to you?”

He was instantly aware that he was the only one asking that question as he raced towards Athos, despite an unusual amount of musketeers milling around behind him who could – _should_ – all be asking the same question at the sight of a black eye and a substantial amount of bloodied cuts and shallow stab wounds. 

“How did it go?” asked Treville, keeping his face neutral and directed at Athos as Aramis sent him a steely glare as the whiff of conspiracy increased. 

“How did _what_ go? You’ve been in a fight! What’s going on? Tell me!”

The appearance of a bloodied d’Artagnan being helped through the gate by two soldiers only added to Aramis’ alarm and outrage. 

He took a step towards d’Artagnan then thought better of it and rounded up in front of Treville instead, angry and shaking. 

“This has been kept from me. I want to know why.”

Despite his insistence on an answer, Aramis’ attention was drawn back to the entrance by the collective murmur that went up when the third one of his friends made an appearance. 

“Porthos! _Oh dios mio!_ ”

Nobody supported Porthos as he strode into the garrison, puffed up with the adrenalin of a fight and too wired and proud for coddling. But he’d clearly thrown himself into the melee wholeheartedly and was covered in bloodied nicks and cuts, a large slice across his shoulder and the beginnings of some mightily impressive bruises. 

Initially he looked away from Aramis, first nodding at Treville then surveying the state of Athos and d’Artagnan. But then he met Aramis’ eyes and tipped his chin up, defiant, and said simply, “Red Guards. They were spreadin’ muck ‘bout you to rile us while you were gone. Cheerin’ on your death. Didn’t have the heart to do anythin’ ‘bout it then. Had way bigger problems to worry about. But now you’re back, and we’re back and my brothers and I have been rememberin’ some of those things they said. ….” His grin was wolfish, “There’s a few of them’ll be on very light duties for the foreseeable future.”

“I should have been told.”

“It wasn’t your fight. It was about us and the knife they twisted into us as we were mourning your loss. We’re all tidying up our grievances, Aramis, not just you.”

Bristling with fury, Aramis glared at Porthos, dark eyes glittering with rage, then he spun and marched away, hands balled into fists, shoulders tense. 

Treville called for the medic then put a hand on Athos’ shoulder and gently steered him towards his office. On passing Porthos he nodded towards Aramis’ retreating back and murmured, “I think you’re expected to follow him.”

“Oh, I know,” replied Porthos with a grimace, “I’m just delaying the enormous ass-kicking I’m about to get.”

 

\-------------------

 

“You know how I know you’re feelin’ better? ‘Cause you’re fussin’.”

Aramis grunted and knitted his brows together, keeping his gaze down, muttering something unsympathetic and incoherent, but concentrating on every cut and nick with the utmost of care. 

It made Porthos smile fondly.

“And now you’re grumblin’. Fussin’ and grumblin’s always a good sign. Means you’re feelin’ better and you’ve forgiven me. Oww!” he added, rubbing the wound on his neck where a bit more alcohol than normal had been applied for sharp effect. 

Aramis smiled pleasantly at that, threw aside the alcohol-drenched cloth, then ran light fingers down over his work, drying it with his touch, moving up, following the path of the old scar over Porthos' eye, the nick by his ear, fiddling with his earring with fond familiarity, tracing down over familiar scars on Porthos’ neck, collarbone and shoulder, then his chest. 

The frown reappeared as his fingers skimmed back and forth over a knotted scar in the middle of Porthos’ chest. 

“That’s new.” 

He looked up at Porthos, genuine worry in his tone and gaze now. 

“Skewered by an intruder at the palace,” explained Porthos lightly. 

“When?”

“Year or more back.”

“Who?”

“Dunno. Someone with a grudge against the King …”

“No, I mean who tended to you? Who sewed you up?”

Porthos shrugged. “King’s physician. Randall? Rendell? Raleigh?”

“He should have taken more care. No wonder you don’t remember his name. The stitching is abysmal.” Aramis bit his lip. “I should have been there. For today’s fight and for the fight when someone did this to you.”

“No regrets, remember? You’re here now, that’s all that matters.”

Aramis’ left hand joined his right on Porthos’ chest and he finally smiled wanly, trying to banish bad memories and misgivings. 

“So many new things to digest. So much has changed.”

Porthos shook his head. 

“We haven’t. You and me, we’re a bit more battered, few more private battles, few more scars. Some you can see, some you can’t, but I’m still me and you’re still you.”

He reached out and put a hand on Aramis’ chest, nudging aside the white cotton of his ripped shirt to reveal the top of the bandages wrapped around his chest.

“How are you goin’ anyway? Ribs givin’ you grief?”

“They’re not as sore as they could be but more sore than I’d like.”

“Those bandages need to come off yet?” 

“This week,” Aramis sighed then he lost his train of thought as the back of Porthos’ crooked finger moved up over the bandages and on to his skin, affectionately stroking up his chest in a single swipe, ultimately tipping his chin up in an affectionate tug.

Realising too late that his gesture may have crossed a line Porthos began to step back but Aramis curled his fingers into his shirt, preventing his withdrawal. 

“I think the last of the bandages should come off now.”

“Sure,” agreed Porthos, “I’ll go get the doctor and …”

“No, I want you to do it.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, evaluating the intent behind the words.

“’Mis,” said Porthos ever so carefully, “When you told me you weren’t ready to kiss, I accepted it ‘cause more than anything else I’m just glad to have you back. We don’t need to kiss or hug or touch – hell, we don’t even need to speak for me to be happy. You could sit in a dark corner silently reading the bible for the rest of your days and as long as I knew you were safe I’d be thankful.”

“I know that,” murmured Aramis, not adjusting his position. 

Sighing, Porthos put his hands on Aramis’ shoulders and turned him around then moved back away from him. 

Aramis made a light sound then slowly turned back and surveyed Porthos, who stood with his arms folded, not quite scowling, but ever so slightly ill-at-ease. 

“Talk to me, Porthos.”

Now he did frown. “’Bout what?”

“The misgivings you’re clearly having.”

Porthos tried to laugh off any answer he was considering giving, and he turned away as he did so, putting even more space between himself and Aramis. 

Aramis took a step forward and Porthos quickly changed his stance and held out a hand, signalling for him to halt. 

“I’m not gonna go into anything with you lightly.”

“And you think I am?”

“I think ….you have a lot more experience with these sort of things than I do.”

“Meaning …?”

“Been thinkin’ ‘bout you. Kissin’ you. ‘Bout bein’ with you like _that_. I was all ready before but now, the more I think about it the more I’m glad you said you didn’t want to kiss me.”

“I said I didn’t want to kiss you on my return to the garrison. It was too soon. That didn’t mean I didn’t want to _ever_ kiss you. I’m actually feeling quite partial to the idea now.”

“Well, I think we should avoid it.”

“What? Why?” 

“Because …. just because.”

Aramis tilted his head and stared at Porthos, intrigued and not a little put out. 

“Tell me.”

“Nuh.”

“Porthos …”

“Don’t _Porthos_ me, and don’t you dare come over here.”

“I’ll stay here if you at least tell me why?” 

“Because … because everything with you is so much more magnified than it is with anybody else. I love you more. I fear more for your safety. I miss you more when you’re away. If I also had you like _that_ …. how would I ever cope if I lost you again?”

Aramis felt his chest expand at the words and his stomach did a little flip of excitement. 

“You won’t ever lose me again. I promise.”

Porthos shook his head, adamant. 

“We’re musketeers. You have no way of keeping that kind of promise. Anything could happen, any moment, any day.”

Aramis took a small step forward. 

“It could. It might. It most likely will. One day. And if that day is tomorrow and I leave this mortal life, what will your biggest regret be? That we dared to kiss or that we didn’t dare to kiss more?”

 _And another step._

“You really are feeling better ‘cos you’re using the logic of the devil.”

“And you, my friend, are entertaining silly thoughts of loss and abandonment when I am here, now, waiting for you, very willing and finally able.”

“It seems too monumental to actually happen.”

“We have kissed before though.”

“Is that all you’re planning on doing? Kissing? And don’t think I haven’t noticed you stalking over here towards me.” Porthos gave Aramis a very long, hard look. 

Aramis raised an eyebrow. “Well I’m not sure exactly what I’m planning on doing, but with you acting like a skittish kitten I might have better luck – how did you put it - sitting quietly in the corner reading my bible.”

Porthos bit back the smile curling up his lip then sobered and gestured between them. 

“I’ve only just got you back. Don’t wanna muck this up.”

“You won’t. We won’t.”

“Don’t wanna traumatise you.”

“Good god man!” Aramis exclaimed, putting his hands on his hips and glowering at Porthos in exasperation. “It’s a kiss, not an amputation. I might not be quite recovered from the nightmares but I’m fit and well and ready and I would very much like to kiss you right now and you’re turning it into extremely hard work!”

“I know, but ….”

Porthos didn’t get to finish his sentence. Three frustrated strides and Aramis had reached him, fiercely cradled his face in his hands and pulled Porthos down into a long, needy kiss. 

When they broke apart – with Aramis raising his eyebrows again in a _‘see, that wasn’t so hard, was it?’_ expression – Porthos could hear his heart _thump, thump, thumping_ in his chest, a slow, ominous beat of need. He tipped Aramis’ face up and caught his lips, slower, softer, languid, tasting and exploring, moaning as they both pressed their bodies together and he felt Aramis’ hands slide up over his shoulders and up into his hair.

This was how it was meant to be. How Porthos knew it would feel. All his fantasies where he’d kissed Fidel and pretended he was Aramis were blown away by the reality.

“My beautiful Porthos.”

“ _Aramis!_ ”

It wasn’t the first time that Aramis had called Porthos beautiful, nor was it new for Porthos to chastise him for describing him thus. But novelty lay in the way Aramis kissed away his name on Porthos’ lips, denying the denial, chasing his own words with a soft kiss of proof. Then another, and another, more murmurs of appreciation until Porthos stopped fighting it and lost himself to the kiss. 

It was another long, languorous embrace. No less passionate or exploratory than the ones before but more settled and leisurely.

When they finally drew back from each other Aramis grinned and Porthos made a deep hum of approval then drew his brow down slightly and stared hard at the door. 

Aramis planted a small kiss on his neck then asked quizzically, “What is it?”

“Athos and d’Artagnan,” said Porthos, “We’ve just been intimate. They usually show up about now.”

That made Aramis throw his head back and laugh, then he nudged Porthos and gestured in the opposite direction. 

“Knowing them they’re probably already hiding there under the bed.”

Porthos ducked his head and pretended to look underneath and they both chuckled. But once their attention had been drawn to the bed it was difficult to not consider the possibilities it offered. 

Although he didn’t leer and waggle his eyebrows suggestively, Porthos did manage to make Aramis grin with the number of times he now threw his gaze between himself and the bed.

“Subtle as a blacksmith’s hammer,” he chuckled. 

“We can wait. If you want,” said Porthos, steadying Aramis by the shoulders and studying him earnestly. “If it’s too soon, or too new. I mean you’ve never done this before so…”

The moment Porthos said it and saw the expression on Aramis’ face, he knew. 

“Wait, _what?_ You’re kidding me. You’ve done this before? With who?”

Aramis looked pained and not a tad guilty. He tried to wave away the silent revelation with a flutter of his hand but Porthos grabbed it and held it still.

“Tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Tell. Me.”

“It makes no difference to us now, Porthos.”

Porthos didn’t ask again but he did begin to squeeze Aramis’ hand tightly. Then tighter, Then tighter again until …

“ _Oww!_ Okay! Marsac!”

“You slept with Marsac?”

“We kissed. We experimented. We did … _things._ ”

“You had sex with him.”

The giant pout was answer enough. However there was something else. Something in the way Aramis kept his gaze centred on Porthos’ chest and refused to raise his eyes. 

“Tell me,” Porthos demanded.

“I just did!”

“No, there’s more.”

“There’s not, just …. _Ow!_ Monsieur Galbien!”

“I bloody knew it. He followed you around for weeks like a lovesick maiden.”

“It was truly just an altruistic gesture. He loved his wife, he thought he loved me. The poor man was so confused. I decided to help him …..”

“You’re a little shit. Who else? Out with it.”

“Porthos, really …”

“I will break all your fingers slowly, one by one, if you don’t start a list in the next three seconds. One ….two ….”

“Owww! Monsieur Rubert, Monsieur Wilbeck, Madame Cherbiet’s cousin, the one with the nice hair, Monsieur Beldon, Monsieur Delgar although that really was just a quick fumble on the way out after he caught me with his wife and I thought he was going to kill me but it turned out he’d quite enjoyed the show, _Oww!_ I’m telling you …. Monsieur Trewin, that Spanish interpreter at the palace – you remember, the one with the enormous purple hat, Monsieur Langard, Monsieur …." 

Aramis trailed off as Porthos broke away from him and leaned on the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose, suddenly weary and despondent. 

“Well, you did make me tell you,” he protested grumpily, massaging his sore fingers. 

“And part of me wishes I hadn’t.” 

Porthos slouched back on the wall and studied Aramis, shaking his head pensively. 

“What am I going to do with you? These last two years have proven to me that I can’t live without you ….”

“Nor me you.”

“… And yet I find myself here, now, not knowing what to do with you or how to act or how to treat you because you and everything you do is so overwhelming. How can I possibly be what you want when so many people have raced through your life yet you’re always left wanting more?”

“I think, dear Porthos, that you need to forget about everyone else and just concentrate on me. And what I’d like more than anything else in this world is for you to put me wherever you’d like me to be and then to do whatever you feel like doing to me.”

“I can’t take control of you.”

“You’re the only one who can and you know it.”

“I can’t.”

“But I want you to.” 

Aramis moved close to Porthos and stretched up to his ear. 

“I won’t resist,” He whispered, then added conspiratorially, “Unless of course you want me to.”

A growl, then Aramis’ wrists were held behind his back, not roughly, but firmly. 

“Not sure you really want to say things like that to me.”

Aramis gasped with clear delight then dipped his head, sending Porthos a seductive stare from under his lashes and said with quiet certainty, “You won’t hurt me.”

“What if I want to?”

They both felt the shiver that fluttered down Aramis’ spine before he groaned and began to grind his hips forward but Porthos put one hand on his chest to stop him then he made a groan of his own and stepped back. 

Aramis stood stock still and stared at Porthos, eyes alert, dark and glittering. 

“Well, well, and there was I all excited and pent up about the mere idea of kissing you.” The tip of his tongue licked along his bottom lip, entrancing Porthos. “Monsieur du Vallon, on reflection I do believe that it may take much longer than expected for you and I to properly re-evaluate our relationship.”

“Is that right?”

“Most certainly.”

Aramis moved in again and raised a hand to Porthos’ chest, stroking down, trailing his finger slowly until it hooked under Porthos’ belt. 

“My Porthos, always so amenable and considerate. Who would have thought ….” 

Before Porthos could find out what was thought and who might have thought it he was pulled down and kissed, long, hard and possessive. 

“I’m sorry,” whispered Porthos. 

“For what?”

“Holding you, your wrists, threatening to hurt you.”

Aramis made a rude noise of dismissal then chuckled. 

“I’m teasing your deepest desires out of you because that’s what I’m good at and anyway, trust me, you won’t ever be rougher than Madame Senebarle.”

“You mean Monsieur Senebarle?”

“Oh no, _Madame_. I swear that woman could lift a horse should she feel the need. She once tied me up and hoisted me onto a butcher’s hook then …. well, I had to feign battle injuries to Treville so I could take light duties for a week and recover.”

Such was the image conjured up that Porthos couldn’t help but throw his head back and bellow out a laugh. 

“I can’t keep up with you! You’re ridiculous. One minute you’re urging me on to dominate you and the next you’ve latched on to me so hard that my lips have bruised with your need. You’ve listed a dozen lovers I didn’t even know about before, detailed exploits that are making my hair curl and which should make me rage with jealousy yet here I am with a side sore from laughing and a heart bursting with fondness. And stop smiling, none of this should be taken as a compliment. You are insane and you make my head spin.”

“Then let me hand the reins back to you if you can’t keep up with my dizzying pace.”

Porthos scoffed and cuffed Aramis lightly on the jaw, but kept his hand there, stroking gently at the soft hairs and marvelling at the fact that he could do this now so freely.

“Tell me what you want, Porthos?”

“I may regret it but I want you, Aramis. Ridiculous you. Dominant you. Submissive you. Sad, happy, angry, delirious, earnest, arrogant, crazy, reckless, silly you. All of it. Because all of it is you.” 

He hesitated then dropped his head, clearly struck by a sobering thought.

“Tell me,” urged Aramis. 

Porthos gestured at the bed then sat down on it wearily, resting his elbows on his knees as he ruffled his own hair. 

“I’d thought about this. _Us._ Here. I was going to take the lead, show you things, make you gasp. For once I was going to be the experienced one. Now I find out you already know all there is to know about having sex with a man.” 

Aramis didn’t quite put his hands on his hips and pout but it was a close run thing. 

“You silly man. This isn’t just about sex. I can have sex, anytime, with anyone.” Before Porthos could voice his forthcoming protest Aramis bent down and put a finger on his lips and shooshed him. “When I want an audience of one to laugh the world’s best laugh at my jokes, who do I turn to? Not Monsieur Beldon. I turn to you, Porthos. I want to hear your deep, dirty laugh in all its splendour and I want to know that it’s just for me. And when I want someone to appreciate one of my shooting stunts, do I go to Monsieur Trewin? No, I seek you by my side because I know you and only you understand how strongly I truly treasure the skill God has gifted me.” 

Aramis knelt down in front of Porthos and cradled his face in his hands, gently brushing his jaw, his cheek, his lips with his thumb. 

His voice was soft now, intimate. “When I’m hurt and I need someone to wipe away the blood and help me heal, I go to you. Other hands are smaller, more nimble, but none of them know how to coax life back into my body and soul as you do. Every time my body shakes with terror, it’s you I long for to hold me and chase my fears away. Nobody else can wrap me up and soothe me as you do. They don’t know the way to stroke my hair and how to find the spot on my neck where I need to feel a comforting breath in order to sleep. When I shed tears of loneliness because my best friend is not beside me, it’s not Marsac I’m missing, it’s you.” Aramis followed the path of his thumb and placed a chaste kiss on Porthos’ lips. “And now, when I yearn for something more than sex, it’s you I picture, Porthos. Only you.”

“Hang on, _‘more than sex’_? So you don’t want us to ….?”

Aramis kissed Porthos and soothed his furrowed brow with a chuckle. 

“Silly man with silly misgivings. Of course I want us to, and we will. But this is me trying to tell you that I’d forsake the world for you, and that overrides everything, even the thrilling promise of being thrown up against a wall, stripped and whipped and ravaged by a savage brute.” 

Porthos smiled and ran his lips softly over Aramis’ jaw then frowned. “I’m fairly sure I didn’t mention throwing, stripping or whipping.”

“Semantics,” dismissed Aramis, pushing Porthos’ knees wider apart so he could lean in closer to him and pull him down for a deeper kiss. 

The rumble returned to Porthos’ throat. 

“You look good down there between my legs,” he murmured.

“I promise you I’ll feel good too,” pledged Aramis, climbing up and pushing Porthos back, all the time connecting with desperate lips and exploring hands. 

Shirts and trousers were quickly shed as their hands sought skin and made up for lost time and all the while they kissed and licked and acquainted themselves with each other’s flesh, moaning and rolling to find the best ways to meld their bodies together of which there seemed to be an endless variety of options.

Porthos suddenly slid Aramis underneath him and pressed down on him with the full weight of his body as he drew Aramis’ head back by his hair and licked down his neck. 

“Christ, yes.”

“I take it you don’t mind me being on top.”

“You go wherever you want to go, just don’t stop.”

“I mean, we haven’t discussed the fundamentals yet.”

Aramis blinked and looked at Porthos dumbly. 

“The … _what?_ ”

“Well, the fundamentals. Of what we’re about to do. Who puts what where an’ all that.” He actually blushed as he said, “Some men have preferences.”

Aramis gripped Porthos’ head in his hands and said in an extremely exasperated tone, “You have me naked, in your bed, hard and writhing beneath you, urging you on and you seriously want to start discussing fundamentals and preferences?”

“Well, I thought it would be polite.”

“Porthos, please just stick your set of fundamentals wherever you feel like sticking them and after it’s all over I promise to sit down and take time to write you a list of my preferences. I’ll even number them for you. But for now, for all that’s holy, please just fuck me!”

“Well, as you asked so nicely, and with so little impatience ….”

“Porthos!”

He chuckled, enjoying feeling Aramis squirm beneath him, thrilling at his intolerance to a drawn-out pace. If there was one thing Porthos was skilled at it was biding his time for a prize. 

Porthos kept his weight fully on Aramis and bent his head so he was whispering in his ear. 

“I know you. You’d hate it if I dropped my voice deep and low like this and growled into your ear to tell you how much I really do want to fuck you.”

“You’d hate it if my whiskers tickled against your ear, your neck, your chest, as I moved down here, lower, and lower still, following the thin line of hair down from your belly button to the place where your brain lives most of the time.

Porthos looked up and held Aramis’ gaze, his eyes glinting with a wickedness that shot straight to Aramis’ balls. 

“You’d hate it if I lingered here and did this with my mouth.”

Tracing over the rapidly expanding shape of Aramis’ cock with his lips, Porthos then smiled and let his teeth graze back over the thin cotton, chuckling at the sound of Aramis sucking in a sharp breath. 

He glanced up at Aramis as he undid the ties of his braies, making an appreciative noise when the cock was revealed but always turning his dark eyes back up to where he was being avidly watched.

“And I’m guessing from all that terrible racket you’re making and the incessant squirming of your body that you’d absolutely loathe it if I did this ….”

There was no preamble, no gentle workup, Porthos simply took Aramis’ cock into his mouth and bobbed his head down until his stretched lips brushed against wiry dark curls. 

Aramis was suffering from such extreme sensory overload that he only realised what he was doing when Porthos stopped sucking his cock for a minute to ask, “Did I really just hear you praying?” then drove his mouth back down and chuckled, the reverberations doing nothing to check the desertion of Aramis’ self-control. 

He groaned as Porthos pushed his legs up then kissed and nibbled his way up and down his inner thighs, blatantly teasing and coaxing noises from him that he didn’t know he was capable of. 

“Now it’s my turn to be impatient because I really, really wanna see and hear how much you’re gonna hate it when I do this …”

Aramis sucked in a sharp breath as a large finger breached his entrance. He gripped Porthos’ hair and couldn’t stop a long moan escaping. 

“You know, Aramis, as much as I appreciate the pretty noises you’re making, it seems to me that you really deserve to be punished for all the indiscretions you've just told me about, not rewarded. And the more I do this - he added another finger, waited to be accommodated, then began to stretch - the more apparent it is that you’re not seeing my actions as punishment at all.”

Aramis was whispering Spanish phrases now and it was unclear if he had heard the warning. 

“Perhaps I should stop?”

Porthos withdrew his fingers and waited. 

A string of passionate curses – in both Spanish and French – erupted from Aramis’ mouth.

“ _Shhh, shhh, shhhhhhh_ …. such language and impatience is very unbecoming.” He chuckled at Aramis’ sigh as began working his fingers back in, ‘’Because clearly you’ll scream the place down if I don’t tend to you.”

Porthos leaned up to kiss Aramis, smiling at the wanton look on his face. 

“Maybe I should see if putting something bigger in you will make you see the error of your ways?” 

“Dear god, who knew my best friend was a torturer in disguise! A best friend who doesn’t shut up during sex!” gasped Aramis, helping Porthos shed the rest of his clothes before pulling him down on top of him with a sense of urgency that elicited a huff of laughter.

Any words dried up as Porthos entered Aramis, slicked with spit and unable to watch Aramis’ lustful expression for long as his thrusting body went white-hot with bliss and he fought to keep control. 

When Porthos did manage to open his eyes it was to the sight of Aramis biting his lip, dark eyes drinking him in, urging him on before losing focus on a moan. 

The sound of his name being panted as Aramis came was more than Porthos could possibly cope with and his body went rigid as he gripped Aramis tight and he gave in to the final moment of ecstasy.

 

\--------------------

 

“’Mis?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m thinkin’ that even though it took us a while to get here, that was all rather enlightening and spectacular.”

Aramis smiled and kept stroking Porthos’ neck. 

“Really my dear Porthos, is it necessary to sound so self-satisfied?”

“I thought we were _both_ satisfied. Are you really going to complain now after you caterwauled like a tomcat and woke half of Paris with your Spanish wailings?”

Aramis lifted his head and glared at Porthos with a raised eyebrow and feigned indignance. “I’ve been rendered senseless by your filthy, torturous seduction and now you try to charm me with sweet, honeyed words of flattery interspersed with insults. You are succeeding so well at trying to be me that I’m really feeling quite out of sorts.”

Porthos grinned and buried his face further in Aramis’ neck, equally shy and proud at the backhanded praise and preening to the touch of soft lips brushing and teasing knowingly against his ear. 

“You could seek terrible retribution on me,” he suggested, kissing a collarbone.

“Really? And how might I attempt to right this travesty?”

“Well, the only real way for you to find justice is to prove your worth as a lover.”

“But that would require a willing participant for that sort of exercise. And besides, I am rather rusty and out of practice at the moment.”

“I’d suffer through it if I had to.”

“Oh, my poor, self-sacrificing Porthos.”

“I’m nothing if not a bearer of burdens.”

They were both unable to stop smiling now until Aramis made a theatrical sigh. 

“But really, I’m so awfully affected by your slight that I don’t think I could possibly gather up the strength to do anything vaguely vulgar to you. You’ve stolen all my glory with that display of your prowess and now I shall wither and die through lack of attention.”

Aramis was quite willing to continue the game but suddenly the weight shifted on him, his face was cradled gently by giant hands and Porthos was staring at him, earnest and intense.

“You’re not going to die or wither while you’re with me, ya hear?”

“Porthos, I was only …”

“Joking. I know. But I don’t wanna ever hear you talk about dying or withering or leaving ever again.”

“I didn’t say _leaving_.”

Porthos frowned, then pouted unhappily.

“Good.”

Aramis pulled Porthos down into a deep kiss then peppered his face and neck with kisses and soft endearments until his frown melted away into a fond smile. 

“I won’t ever say leaving. Not ever. I’m ridiculously attracted to everything about you and I’m afraid nothing could ever pry me away from you again. You’re the centre of my universe and I’m hopelessly lost in you.”

“Now who’s doin’ the sweet talkin’?”

“I hope you’re taking it seriously?”

“I always take it to heart when you’re payin’ me compliments,” murmured Porthos, gently nipping Aramis’ bottom lip again and again every time he tried to say anything further until they were both chuckling. 

“Now, didn’t you say something about wanting to do rude and unlawful things to my body to prove a stupid point? Because I’m not against that at all, ya know.”

Aramis barked out a laugh and before the sound had died away he had pushed up and slipped out from under Porthos then rolled him over onto his back, pushing him down and rising up over him to claim his lips in a rough kiss. 

Porthos narrowed his eyes.

“That was unbelievably tricky.”

“Ah, my friend, we’ve come a long way together but I’m delighted to say that we now have so many new things to explore that it would be remiss of me to deny you any longer. Lie back, try not to make too much noise, avoid injuring yourself or especially me when you lose control and above all don’t answer if Athos and d’Artagnan knock on your door enquiring about your wellbeing.”

“I thought you said you were rusty?”

“Oh, I may very well be, but since you’ve offered yourself up for me to practice on, I thought we might as well get on with honing my skills as soon as possible.”

“Do your worst. But remember that I’m not one of those refined highbrow gentrified types with skin as smooth as a baby because they’ve never done a day’s work in their life.”

Aramis ran a finger across Porthos’ chest and up over the wound on his shoulder.

“Smooth skin may be desirable, but the scars on your body map your memories and many of those memories belong to me too.” He kissed the newest scar then whispered in Porthos’ ear, “It’s time we made some new memories together now, don’t you think?”

And so they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! It's finished, finally. Thank you so much for all the encouragement, kudos and comments. They mean so much and kept me going. My next task is to finish some of the other fics!!


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